

COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 



AT THE FOOT 
OF THE SAND-HILLS 


BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


The Camp by Copper River. l2mo, cloth, 

with three full-page illustrations . . . . 1.00 

A tale of vigorous youth in its first-developing spirit of ad- 
venture which will force the most lethargic reader to 
sigh for the days when he was a boy. — Catholic Universe. 


The Marks of the Bear Claws. i2mo, cloth, 

with frontispiece 1.00 


Deals with the journey of Father Marquette, Joliet, and 
several companions over unknown waters in quest of the 
Mississippi. How their expedition is crowned with suc- 
cess, after many adventures in which the marks of the 
bear claws play the leading part, is graphically narrated. 


The Race for Copper Island. i2mo, cloth, 

with frontispiece 1.00 


A sterling story for the young. Keeps the excitement 
going from page to page. Historical and instructive. 
Father Spalding grasps the up-to-date idea in his stories, 
so charming and interesting. — Pittsburgh Catholic. 

The Cave by the Beech Fork. l2mo, cloth, 

with frontispiece 1.00 

This is a story full of “go.” The adventures are plenti- 
ful, and will appeal to boys. In no part is it dull; the 
scenes throughout have the great merit of originality. 

The Sheriff of the Beech Fork. l2mo, 

cloth, with frontispiece 1.00 

« 

This book deserves a cordial welcome from the lover of 
sound juvenile literature. From the outset the reader’s 
attention is captivated, and never lags a moment through- 
out the entire story. — Iowa Catholic Messenger. 

The Old Mill on the Withrose. 12nio, cloth, 

with three full-page illustrations . . . . 1.00 

The plot of the work is artfully reserved, and the reader 
is carried from page to page and from chapter to chapter 
in breathless suspense until the last is reached, when the 
whole is happily revealed. — The Patrician. 

The Sugar Camp and After. l2mo, cloth, 

with three full -page illustrations . . . .1.00 

The adventures of Raymond Bolt, from the streets of 
Chicago to the sugar-camp and fields of the Blue Grass 
Country, fill many an interesting and instructive page. 
Much can be learned from this book, and the learning is 
decidedly pleasant. — The Fordham Monthly. 








“It seemed an hour while Walter held his gun in his treinhling 
hands .” — Page 68. 


AT THE FOOT 
OF THE SAND-HILLS 


BY 


Rev. HENRY SPALDING, S.J. 

Author of “The Camp by Copper River,” “The 
Old Mill on the Withrose,” etc. 



New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS OF BENZIGER’S MAGAZINE 


1917 




COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY BENZIGER BROTHERS 



/ 

OCT 24 1317 


©C!,A477183 


'Vo [ j 




IS; 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER I 

Experience op a Young Hunter 7 

CHAPTER II 

The Hurts at Home 18 

CHAPTER III 

Ignatius Bararana 80 

CHAPTER IV; 

Along the Valley of the Loup 41 

CHAPTER y 

Rolly 52 

CHAPTER VI 

Getting at the Difficulty 63 

chapter VII 

On the Banks op the Little Loup .... 74) 

CHAPTER VIII 

In the Duck-Blind . 83 

CHAPTER IX' 

A Change in the Sport ,.92 


5 


6 


Contents 


CHAPTER X PAGE 

The Messengers from the North 103 

CHAPTER XI 

The Ingram Real Estate Co 113 

CHAPTER XII 

Planning for the Future 121 

chapter XIII 

Sam Diggs , 130 

CHAPTER XIV 

Muskrats and a Visitor 138 

CHAPTER XV 

Young Trappers 147 

CHAPTER XVI 

That Red-Whiskered Man 157 

CHAPTER XVII 

Angel Rolly 167 

CHAPTER XVIII 

The Sand-Storm 174 

CHAPTER XIX 

When Neighbors Become Friends 184 

CHAPTER XX 

Farewell to the Sand-Hills 191 


AT THE FOOT OP THE 
SAND-HILLS 


CHAPTER I 

EXPERIENCE OF A YOUNG HUNTER 

‘T I Ihe best sporting gun on the market,” 
i said Dr. Murt as he stepped from his 
touring car and took an automatic fowling- 
piece from young Walter Blakestone. “I 
have tried them all,” he continued, “tried them 
all. Before the season is over I’ll show you 
how to kill six ducks in five shots.” 

“Oh, I’ll be satisfied with one duck in five 
shots,” replied the boy shyly. 

“You couldn’t make such a poor record even 
if you tried,” were the encouraging words of 
the doctor. “Now, come, we must have a short 
practice. An ear of corn makes a good target. 
It is more difficult to hit than a duck.” 

Reaching across the wire fence near the road 

7 


8 Experience of a Young Hunter 

side, the man plucked an ear of corn and 
stripped it of its husk. 

“Do you know how to put your gun to- 
gether?” he asked. 

“No, sir; it has not been unpacked since I 
left the sporting-goods store in Chicago.” 

“We need the gun before the target,” 
remarked Dr. Murt as he began to unbuckle 
the leather case. 

It required but a few minutes to remove the 
gun and snap the two sections into place. The 
loading was equally simple, and soon six shells 
were slipped into the magazine. Then the boy 
was required to remove the shells, take the gun 
apart, and refit it again while the doctor looked 
on. 

“You have learned your lesson well,” said 
the instructor, as he watched Walter repeat 
the whole process. “Now for practice. I’ll 
throw this ear of com twenty feet above your 
head. See whether you can hit it.” 

“Let us begin with something easy,” laughed 
the lad. “Suppose we put the ear of corn on 
the top of that fence-post and I’ll stand here 
and shoot at it.” 

The doctor was amused. “Why, you could 
hit it with a stone,” he replied. “Just try my 
way. Later if you miss a duck it won’t wait 


Experience of a Young Hunter 9 

for you ; but you can try again if you miss this 
mark.” 

All was ready, and up into the air went the 
moving target. The boy lifted the gun to his 
shoulder, followed the object until it fell to the 
ground, but did not fire. 

“Why didn’t you shoot?” asked the man. 

“Something wrong with the trigger.” 

“Of course,” said the doctor, taking the gun. 
“I am not a good teacher, for I did not explain 
how to release the trigger,” On the side of the 
gun was a clasp which, if left in the center of 
its range of motion, held the trigger at safety; 
if pushed forward, it allowed one shot to be 
fired, and if drawn back it released the entire 
discharge. In this last position one had only 
to keep his finger on the trigger, and the gun 
would empty the magazine automatically. 

“We will set it for one discharge,” continued 
Dr. Murt, handing the gun back to the boy. 
Again the ear of corn was tossed upward. 
The young marksman did not fire until it had 
almost reached the ground. 

“You should have shot sooner,” said the 
man, picking up the mark, which was un- 
touched. “This time try to fire just when the 
ear begins to fall.” 

“I don’t expect to hit it.” 


10 Eocperience of a Young Hunter 

“Follow my directions and you can’t miss 
it. Are you ready?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Up went the mark again, and just as it was 
balancing in the air the lad fired. There was 
not a doubt about the result, for the spinning 
mark showed that more than one of the duck- 
shot had struck it. 

“Good work!” cried the doctor. 

“It may have been an accident, but I cer- 
tainly got it,” said the boy. “I like this gun,” 
he continued; “it doesn’t kick back like the 
old-fashioned guns used to do.” 

“Old-fashioned is the right word,” chimed 
in the man. “All other guns are old-fash- 
ioned. But get ready for another shot.” 

Walter tried several shots and succeeded in 
three. 

“Now just a few words of instruction,” said 
the doctor. “Always wait until the ducks are 
getting ready to light. For a second they 
hover over the water, almost at a standstill, 
just as the ear of corn does before it begins to 
fall. If the ducks fly to either side always 
shoot in front of them. I can’t tell you just 
how far in front to aim. No one can tell you; 
only practice can teach you this, for it depends 
on the speed at which they are flying. You 


Experience of a Young Hunter 11 

have a good eye and will get the range. I can 
see that you will get it. Do you play base- 
ball?’’ 

“Yes, sir,” 

“Then you are a good batter.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Because you have a good eye and steady 
nerves.” 

Walter acknowledged that he was the best 
batter on his team. 

“But I think I will try my hand with your 
new gun,” said Dr. Murt. “You throw the 
ear of corn just as high as you can, for I want 
to get almost under it.” 

''Bang! bang! bang! bangT went the gun, 
and the ear of corn twirled and twirled at each 
successive shot. 

“ Whea-a-a-a-a-a !” whistled the boy. 

“Yes, I hit it four times in succession,” said 
the man, turning his gun in his hands. “A 
great invention! The best sporting-piece in 
the land! With a little practice you will hit 
every time. In hunting doves in August I 
generally wait for two to fly near each other, 
and very frequently get both of them. At 
times I have killed eight ducks in six shots. 
Well, the lake is not far away. You will have 
at least three hours to wait before I return and 


12 Evcperience of a Young Hunter 

if you have not two ducks I will be disap- 
pointed. Bob here will bring them in for 
you.” 

At these words, Bob, a fine water spaniel, 
jumped out of the car, wagged his tail and 
barked with delight. 

“Will you stay with this young fellow. 
Bob?” 

Another bark and still more frequent wag- 
ging of his tail gave an affirmative answer. 

“You will stay with any one who has a gun!” 

Bark and wag; bark and wag. Little Bob 
knew what was wanted. 

For a quarter of a mile over the hills walked 
the two, followed by the dog. 

Is that the lake?” asked the boy as the sun 
suddenly fiashed over a gleaming surface not 
far ahead. 

“Precisely. You saw it before I did.” 

“Where did the water come from and how 
did a lake get there?” 

“You are asking a rather hard question, my 
young friend; but if you are fond of reading, I 
will give you a whole book on the question. 
Did you ever study geology?” 

“No, sir.” 

“Physical geography, then?” 

“Yes, sir.” 


Experience of a Young Hunter 13 

“This is a question of geology or physical 
geography; but just now we are hunting. 
You can keep the study for some other time. 
I want to tell you something more about the 
hunting. In the first place, you see that house 
just beyond the lake?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, old Dobbs lives there, and he is the 
meanest man in Nebraska. You must not 
shoot in the direction of his house, for if you 
do — well — don’t do it and there’ll be no trou- 
ble. I’ll put you in a position where you will 
not have to shoot toward his barn or house. 
You will not be on his property and he will not 
dare to say a word to you. Simply follow my 
directions and there’ll be no trouble.” 

They had scarcely started their tramp over 
the hills toward the lake when Walter tripped 
and went sprawling to the ground. 

“You stepped on a shoestring,” said the 
doctor. 

“No,” replied the boy, as he examined his 
shoes, “the laces are tight.” 

“But there are other shoestrings. You got 
tangled in a prairie shoestring.” 

Walter then noticed a dense, finely-branched 
plant which formed a trap for any unaccus- 
tomed pedestrian. 


14 Experience of a Young Hunter 

The lake was soon reached — a narrow, shal- 
low body of water, clear as a crystal stream. 
At the upper end was a clump of willows, only 
a few feet high, but offering perfect protection 
for a huntsman. The decoys were thrown 
some twenty feet from the shore where young 
Walter Blakestone ensconced himself, while 
Bob, obedient to orders, crouched at his feet. 

‘T will be back from my sick-call in about 
three hours,” said Dr. Murt, as he took his 
departure. “That will give us half an hour to 
reach home before dark, and remember, if you 
haven’t two ducks for supper I’ll be disap- 
pointed. Remember, don’t shoot until they 
are about to light. If you are quick enough 
you can get six shots at a flock.” 

The physician soon regained his motor car, 
and was speeding along the road among the 
sand-hills on a sick-call some twenty miles 

awav. 

«/ 

The young huntsman sat among the stunted 
willows. Not a tree was in sight except the 
fruit orchard clustered around the house of 
farmer Dobbs. On every side were the undu- 
lating sand-hills stretching away to the distant 
horizon, and farther away to the west for miles 
and hundreds of miles to the mountain slopes. 

A strange silence brooded over the land- 


Experience of a Young Hunter 15 

scape. There were sounds like the moaning of 
winds in tree-tops, and yet there were neither 
tree-tops nor wind. There was no evidence of 
a wind, and yet it seemed to come in some 
indistinct way and to disappear. 

There was an occasional splash across the 
lake, where a colony of muskrats had built their 
domed houses. Queer houses they were, with 
doors that were safe, for to enter them one had 
to dive into the cool water. But Mr. Muskrat 
was accustomed to the cold water. His only 
difficulty was in winter when the surface of the 
water froze, and the family had to tear an 
opening through the roof. There was con- 
siderable activity in this little village, and often 
to break the monotony of waiting the young 
huntsman pointed his fowling-piece at one of 
the unsuspecting inhabitants. 

Suddenly at the far end of the lake some 
thirty ducks appeared. Walter’s heart beat 
and fluttered with the quivering flock. On, 
on they sailed right toward him. Yes, and 
just the height for an easy shot. Then there 
was a cry of alarm, wings beat the air rapidly, 
and soon the whole flock was lost to view. 

“Sorry, boy, but I didn’t see you or I 
wouldn’t have frightened them,” said a voice. 

Walter turned and saw an Indian standing 


16 Eccperience of a Young Hunter 

at his side. He seemed to be a man of about 
twenty-five, tall, straight and muscular — a 
perfect model for a statue of bronze. There 
was a look of sadness in his serious features. 
He dropped an old carpet-bag which he car- 
ried, and threw his shoulders back with his 
arms akimbo. “Sorry, boy,” he repeated. 
“Very sorry. But you have only lost some 
ducks which you don’t need. I have lost a 
home — lost everything. You’ve got a place to 
sleep to-night; but where will Ignatius Bar- 
arana sleep? Still, I didn’t come to tell you 
my troubles; but only to ask your pardon for 
frightening the ducks. I hope another flock 
flies this way. Good-by I” That voice was 
like the voice of a mother! That parting 
seemed as affectionate as the parting of the 
fondest friend! 

Walter had not said a word; he seemed 
speechless. The Indian had spoken with 
almost a perfect accent. The boy watched him 
slowly disappear over the hill near the lake. 
He felt an interior impulse to run after the 
Indian and talk to him. But he kept his place 
behind the willows, thinking — thinking of the 
noble Indian who had called himself Ignatius 
Bararana. 

Two hours passed with not a duck in sight. 


Eocperience of a Young Hunter 17 

Even patient Bob grew tired and yawned and 
stretched his limbs. Finally Walter saw by 
his watch that it was time to start for the road 
where he was to await the return of Dr. Murt. 
Not wishing to let the afternoon pass without 
a single shot he determined to try his luck at 
one of the muskrats. His aim was true, and 
he heard the wounded animal splashing and 
floundering in the water, but in his excitement 
he held his finger upon the trigger of the auto- 
matic gun, which continued to discharge from 
its magazine. 

'^Bang! bangT and unfortunately the shots 
rattled against the barn of Mr. Dobbs. 

In a few seconds the farmer appeared at the 
barn door yelling at the top of his voice. 
Young Blakestone did not wait to explain the 
accident, but with Bob leading the way dashed 
over the hills toward the road. 


CHAPTER II 

THE MURTS AT HOME 


“T^id you get a shot?” called out Dr. 

1 3 Murt as the boy came running 
toward the machine. 

“Yes, three shots,” stammered the boy, all 
out of breath. 

“At what?” 

“Well, the first shot was at a muskrat, but 
the last two hit the barn of Mr. Dobbs.” 

“Didn’t hurt any one, I suppose.” 

“I hope not. Mr. Dobbs was yelling so that 
I didn’t wait to find out what had happened.” 

“I am sure you didn’t hit any one,” replied 
the physician. “Just a few stray shots struck 
the barn; no damage done. I’ll pass by the 
house to-morrow and explain it all to the old 
man. Did you see any ducks?” 

Walter explained what had happened, and 
how he had lost a chance just as a flock of 
ducks was sailing near. 

“That’s hunter’s luck,” answered Dr. Murt, 

18 . 


The Murts at Home 


19 


starting the machine. “But how did you hap- 
pen to fire three times?” 

“I must have been excited, so excited that I 
kept my finger on the trigger.” 

“We have to. learn these things,” said the 
doctor. “But you are all out of breath. Did 
you run the whole way from the lake?” 

“Ask Bob, he led the way,” laughed the 
boy. 

“Are you frightened, too. Bob?” and Dr. 
Murt looked down at the dog at his feet. 

But the little duck dog was safely curled up 
under the seat and did not seem willing to be 
disturbed by useless questions. 

“This is a glorious day!” resumed the physi- 
cian. “A glorious day! And this Nebraska 
air ! Give me this N ebraska air ! W e are j ust 
half way between the Mississippi Valley and 
the Rocky Mountains ; and it is almost moun- 
tain air that we are breathing. That is the 
reason you found it hard to run. It takes a 
week to accustom ourselves to the change of 
climate. But this is a glorious climate ! Dry, 
and as healthy as any place in the world! See 
how the sun and wind have tanned me.” 

Tanned and a perfect model of strength and 
health was Dr. Frederic Murt. He was clean 
shaven and had the appearance of a prosper- 


20 


The Hurts at Home 


ous and intelligent ranchman. There was 
something strikingly clear and alert in his dark 
eyes. Even as a boy he had been a popular 
character in the little village of Sandpit, and 
now he was one of its highly respected citizens. 
But his interest went beyond the town. He 
was thoroughly acquainted with the history of 
his native State and knew its needs and agri- 
cultural advantages. He was ambitious to 
represent his section of the country at the State 
legislature, not through any selfish motive but 
that he might serve the best interests of Ne- 
braska. But at present his thoughts were cen- 
tered on his young friend. 

“Here is a chance to see whether you have a 
hunter’s eye,” he said to the lad, slowing down 
the machine. “Look over toward that marsh. 
Do you see anything?” 

“You mean something alive?” asked the boy. 

“Precisely, a bird; a big bird, a blue heron.” 

“Did you see it light?” 

“No; I glanced over and picked it up in the 
weeds. It hasn’t moved.” 

“Is it blue?” asked the boy after vainly try- 
ing to find the object. 

“Only its throat and neck. I would rather 
call it the grey heron, for although it has a 
bluish tint it is more grey than blue. In fact. 


The Murts at Home 


21 


we generally call it the sand crane, for it flies 
just like a crane, with its legs sticking straight 
out behind it. It has a yellow bill nearly six 
inches long.” 

“And I see the bill and the bird,” said Wal- 
ter pointing toward an old dead stump. 

“I didn’t think you would ever be able to 
find it,” answered the doctor. “You have a 
hunter’s eye. Yes, sir, that bird is waiting for 
a frog or a fish, or it may be for a snake; it is 
fond of snakes. I wonder whether we could 
get ’a shot at it. It is too far away from the 
road ; and if I stop the machine the heron will 
fly at once. Suppose we fool the old feUow. 
You step off on this side while the machine is 
moving. I’ll drive on slowly and while the 
heron is watching you may be able to creep up 
on it.” 

Although Walter crept close to the ground 
the bird flew before he had advanced ten feet 
from the road. 

“Too sharp for us!” cried out the doctor. 
“I would like to get the specimen for a friend 
of mine, but later on we’ll have another 
chance.” 

Mrs. Murt greeted the hunters on their 
return and announced that a plentiful supper 
awaited them. “You couldn’t expect to kill 


22 


The Murts at Home 


anything the first day,” were her encouraging 
words when told that they had not met with 
success. 

The Murts had been married but a few’' 
w’^eeks wdien young Walter Blakestone came 
to visit them. Mrs. Murt had been a teacher 
for some years in a local country school. She 
contributed to the society column in the little 
weekly paper of Sandpit. Educated in the 
convent school at Hastings, Nebraska, and 
with advantages which few of her associates 
enjoyed, she was a leader among her compan- 
ions. Yet she was so unobtrusive and so 
thoughtful of others, that all felt honored by 
her friendship, and none were envious of her 
attainments. 

They lived in a brick house at the edge of the 
village. A narrow concrete walk ran in front 
of the yard ; there were young shade trees and 
shrubbery, and a garden, at the rear of which 
was the doctor’s garage. 

When Walter Blakestone, after changing 
his hunting-suit, walked into the dining-room 
and stood in the glare of the drop lights, he 
was not aware that his hostess was gazing at 
him almost with a mother’s pride. He was a 
boy of fifteen, a trifle above the medium height, 
and of rather slender build; but his shoulders 


The Murts at Home 


23 


were broad and well developed. His long, 
jet-black, bristly hair was brushed back with- 
out being parted. His forehead was high in 
the center, but dipped slightly at the sides, 
bringing the middle into striking prominence. 
He wore a bluish suit and a showy necktie, 
whose brilliant colors, however, were partly 
lost in the artificial light. He always selected 
a tie of the lightest texture, with the result that 
any quick movement or sudden jerk threw it 
to one side ; and now as he stood near the table 
the ends of the cravat fell gracefully over his 
left shoulder. 

“Sit here,” said the hostess to Walter. 
“This is to be your place at the table during 
your visit. No, I shouldn’t call it a visit. I 
should rather say that this is to be your place 
while you are a member of the family. For 
you are to be a real member, not a stranger — 
not a visitor, but a member of the family.” 

“He knows how I made myself a member 
of his father’s family for four years,” asserted 
the doctor, “and I hope he does the same in my 
house.” 

“It is fine to be in a warm room after sitting 
on that cold hillside for two hours or more,” 
affirmed the boy as he took his place at the 
table. 


24 


The Hurts at Home 


“Of course you haven’t much of an appe- 
tite,” put in the doctor. 

“If he ran as far as you say he did,” replied 
the wife, “he must be too tired to eat.” 

“I really don’t know how far I ran,” said 
the boy, “but I am sure that I didn’t lose my 
appetite.” 

“Why, I can eat nails after riding thirty 
miles in this Nebraska air,” claimed the doc- 
tor. 

“You may give him too much exercise all at 
once,” protested Mrs. Murt to her husband. 
“Remember that he came to visit both of us. 
He was scarcely off the train this morning 
when you had him out hunting, and you intend 
to start early to-morrow.” 

“I want to have him tanned and hardened. 
It takes a week or more to give these city peo- 
ple a little color.” 

“But it takes only one day to give us an ap- 
petite,” insisted Walter, who was thoroughly 
enjoying his supper. 

“What do you think of our new home?” 
asked the hostess. 

“It’s just fine. I have a better room than 
we gave the doctor when he stayed with us in 
Chicago. His room had only one window and 
it was right up against a fiat. I have two 


The Murts at Home 25 

large windows and no other house within a 
block.” 

“Yes, that’s one thing we have out here in 
Sandpit,” contended Dr. Murt. “A large, 
open yard and plenty of fresh air — real fresh 
air! Nebraska air! There is a variety of air 
just as there is a variety of apples. This Ne- 
braska air can’t be found in any other State. 
It isn’t stale and smoky like city air; it isn’t 
too rare like mountain air; it isn’t like the air 
over in Iowa or Illinois; it is drier and more 
bracing; it’s Nebraska air — Nebraska air!” 

After supper Dr. Murt rang up Mr. Dobbs 
to explain about the accident of the shot hitting 
his barn. 

At once the farmer became abusive. He 
acknowledged that no one was hit by the shot, 
and that none of the horses or cows were 
touched, but he was going to have Dr. Murt 
arrested for bringing a stranger on his prop- 
erty. 

Dr. Murt laughed as he received the threat- 
ening message, leaving Walter under the im- 
pression that the farmer had not taken the 
matter seriously. 

“It is all right,” said he to the boy, as he 
hung up the receiver, “the shot hit no one — it 
only rattled against the side of the barn. 


26 


The Murts at Home 


We’ll go by the house in the morning and 111 
explain matters more fully. But there has 
been another trouble at his house to-day. I 
couldn’t make it all out, but his Indian work- 
man has gone away.” 

“Perhaps he’s the one who frightened the 
ducks,” put in Walter. “He said that he had 
lost his home and hadn’t a place to sleep.” 

“No doubt about it,” continued the doctor. 
“He was leaving the house and happened to 
walk near you.” 

“He is really a good Indian,” affirmed the 
wife. “I see him at church so often. He 
would attract any one’s attention. He is so 
very devout and attentive.” 

Returning to the table in the dining-room. 
Dr. Murt picked up a small package. 
“Well,” he remarked, “those men at the State 
department have sent the seed in quickly. 
You see,” he continued turning to Walter, 
“I’m experimenting with Andropogon Jiallii 
and Andropogon scopariusf" 

“What jaw-crackers,” cried out Walter, at 
the same time pressing both hands to his 
cheeks. 

“They are rather big words,” granted the 
doctor, with a laugh, “but I have been dealing 
with those scientific men and have learned to 


The Murts at Home 


27 


use technical words. The first means ‘blue- 
stem/ and the second ‘bunch grass.’ You were 
walking through both kinds all afternoon.” 

‘T don’t remember them,” replied the boy. 
“But I was looking out for those shoestrings 
after I got that fall.” 

“And you will be studying grass and noth- 
ing but grass, if you let the doctor have his 
way,” remarked the wife. “We have agreed 
to keep one half of our greenhouse for flow- 
ers and one half for experimenting with 
grass.” 

“Has the carpenter been working at the 
screens?” Dr. Murt wanted to know. 

“Yes, and he will have them in to-morrow,” 
she replied. 

“I must plant this seed to-night, for there 
will be no time in the morning,” said the hus- 
band, taking a lantern and leading the way to 
the porch. “You see,” he continued, pointing 
out the place to his young friend, “we are going 
to make a little greenhouse here at the south 
end of the building. It will have plenty of 
sunlight and be heated through the kitchen 
window in cold weather. This is one of the 
best sections in the State for studying the dif- 
ferent kinds of soil; for right around us the 
sand-hills and the prairies overlap. Very few 


28 


The Murts at Home 


people can point out just where one ends and 
the other begins.” 

In the faint light of the lantern the boy could 
discern several rows of rough boxes, and asked 
the doctor what they were for. 

“The first ten boxes,” explained the doctor, 
“are filled with soil from the upper hills of the 
prairie, and the last ten with soil from the sand- 
hills. The seeds were all planted on the same 
day. In this third row the soil was taken from 
the sand-hills and at varying depths of two to 
twenty feet. I collected the soil when one of 
the farmers was sinking a well. My object 
in studying the nature of the ground at various 
depths is this. Sometimes heavy wind-storms 
strip the fields of all growth. It has been 
taken for granted that the ground would be of 
no value once the grass was killed. I am of 
the opinion that the sand many feet below the 
surface has just as much and sometimes more 
fertility than the top soil. If I can prove this 
it will be of great benefit to the State. At my 
suggestion State officials have begun to carry 
on investigations in several sections, and have 
supplied me with seed for my own experi- 
ments.” 

While he was talking, the doctor was sepa- 
rating the seed and planting it in boxes. 


The Murts at Home 


29 


“Do you remember the names of the grass?” 
he asked Walter. 

“Those jaw-cracker words?” 

“No, you will never remember them. But 
you have only to look at the grass that is in the 
boxes, and you will pick out the ‘bunch grass.’ 
If it were in the daytime you could easily select 
the ‘blue-stem’ owing to the slight bluish tint.” 

Then there was a discussion between the 
doctor and his wife about the interest in caring 
for flowers and experimenting with various 
kinds of soil and grass. 

Although Walter acknowledged that Dr. 
Murt’s work seemed more useful, he felt that 
flowers were more attractive. 

The boy retired early that night as he was 
to be up before daylight for his second day’s 
hunt. 


CHAPTER III 


IGNATIUS BARARANA 

I SIDORE Dobbs was not a miser, although he 
went by no other name among his neighbors. 
He had given up his business in 'Omaha to 
bring his wife into the country, for physicians 
said that this was her only hope. The change 
did benefit the woman, but gradually her health 
gave way and Isidore was left with an only 
child. 

He had never been able to accustom himself 
to the ways of his neighbors, and now after 
the death of his wife he shut himself up within 
his own narrow life and cared for no one. Un- 
der these strained conditions he became more 
crabbed and unsocial. It was gradually noised 
through the neighborhood that he was im- 
mensely rich. The strangest stories were cir- 
culated about his burying bags of gold under 
his wheat-bin or beneath his corn-crib. 

It was customary for the country people as 
the}^ passed each other on the roads to 
exchange a hearty ‘‘Good morning” or “Good 

30 


31 


Ignatius Bararana 

afternoon.” Farmer Dobbs, when he first 
began to separate himself from the rest of the 
community, returned salutations with a grunt 
of recognition, albeit it was rather unintelli- 
gible, but now he passed all by without a word. 
People therefore no longer saluted him. He 
was not regarded as a member of the commun- 
ity. No one approached his home. Not even 
the country children who walked by his house 
from school even ventured within the front 
yard. 

That afternoon, while Walter Blakestone 
was enjoying his first duck-hunt, there was 
trouble between Isidore Dobbs and his hired 
man — an Indian by the name of Ignatius Bar- 
arana. He was of the Blackfeet tribe and 
from the Catholic Mission of St. Ignatius in 
Montana. After attending a Government 
industrial and agricultural school in Nebraska 
he had decided to remain in the State where 
many of his people had already settled. 
Wishing to gain experience he had hired him- 
self out to farmer Dobbs. 

Things had not gone smoothly from the first 
day; but Ignatius remained with the farmer 
on account of the latter’s little son. 

His name was Rollin, after his mother; but 
his father and Ignatius called him Roily. 


32 Ignatius Bararana 

He was a wee, delicate creature of eleven, 
but so small that one might easily have taken 
him for a child or eight or nine. His was an 
unnatural life, for he had none of the associa- 
tions of childhood days, and other children had 
never come to play with him. The Indian was 
like a mother to him — put him to bed at night, 
and dressed him in the morning, cooked for 
him, sewed his tattered clothes, and played 
with him at noon and at night when the day’s 
work was over. 

Roily had many horses — big horses and little 
horses, fat horses and lean horses; and each 
horse was a piece of wood. The Indian had 
whittled rough heads for these horses. He 
even condescended to mount one of these horses 
and ride around the yard. He would do any- 
thing to please or amuse little Roily. 

“Come, Ig; come and mend my horse’s 
head,” said Roily after dinner that day. “It’s 
broken, and I can’t fix it.” 

“How did you break it?” 

“It got real wild and I whipped it just 
like you whip the horses, and it ran, and ran, 
and hit its head against the wall.” 

“Is the horse dead?” 

“Yes, but if you fix the head it will come to 
life again.” 


Ignatius Bararana 33 

“A bad head it’s got,” said the Indian, exam- 
ining the piece of wood. 

“Such a bad' horse,” expostulated the child. 

“Such a bad boy, I am afraid,” replied the 
Indian. “Horses can’t be used to knock 
against stone walls.” 

“I didn’t hit the wall with it ; it just got wild 
and ran away like a real horse.” 

“Well, we’ll have to make an extra bit for 
its mouth so that you can hold the horse.” 

“This one don’t run away,” exclaimed Rollin 
as he pranced around on one of his steeds. 

“Hold this wild horse while I go in and get a 
hammer and some nails,” said the Indian. 

Rollin, forgetting that the horse was dead, 
straddled the piece of wood and tugged at the 
string bridle. “It is trying to run away 
again,” he cried, 

“Well, it can’t run away with a broken 
head,” explained the Indian. 

“Hurry back soon, Ig; for it’s a wild horse.” 

The broken horse was soon fastened 
securely. “Now I will try this wild horse. 
See, it don’t run away with me,” said the 
Indian as he rode the stick horse around the 
yard. 

“Yes, but when you go away it will get 
wild,” exclaimed the boy who was determined 


34 Ignatius Bararana 

to have at least one dangerous horse in his col- 
lection. 

Thus they continued to play until Mr. 
Dobbs passed out of the house and informed 
the Indian that it was time to begin work. 

As Ignatius drew near the barn he was 
attracted by a low whistle. A few minutes 
later he was engaged in earnest conversation 
with another Indian. The two men were not 
aware of the fact that they were being observed 
by the farmer. 

Evidently they were discussing something 
of importance, and the visitor was making 
demands of Ignatius. “No! no! no!” said the 
latter repeatedly. 

The white man could not hear the words, but 
he saw that the conversation was vehement. 

Suddenly Bararana turned and walked 
away toward the corn-fields. The visitor 
watched him for a few minutes. “You cow- 
ard! You pale-face coward,” he hissed; but 
finding his taunts unanswered he climbed the 
fence and disappeared down the road. 

Half an hour later when Ignatius was busy 
cutting corn, Isidore Dobbs walked up to him 
and said: 

“Ig, your services are not wanted here any 
longer!” 


Ignatius Bararana 35 

“Do you mean that I must quit work?” 

“Didn’t I say so?” 

“But generally people get some kind of 
warning.” 

“Sometimes they don’t deserve a warning.” 

“So I am to quit work right now?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Am I to leave the place at once?” 

“At once! I’ll give you only half an hour 
to get your things, and I’m going to watch you 
all the time.” 

“Then you suspect me.” 

“That’s my business.” 

“But you must suspect me, or you would 
not watch me. I have been here for four 
months and I’ve not been watched.” 

“I didn’t know you as well as I know you 
now.” 

“Tell me what I have done that you suspect 
me now!” 

There was a silence. The corn-knife had 
dropped from the Indian’s hand; the farmer 
stood husking an ear which he had uncon- 
sciously plucked from a stalk. The Indian 
stood rigidly with his eyes cast to the ground. 

“I’ll tell you,” resumed the farmer, “but first 
I’ll ask you a question. Was Iniun Joe here 
to-day?” 


36 


Ignatius Bai'arana 


“Yes, sir.” 

“And he has been here several times of late.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And you’ve been told to let no one come 
near this house.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Now you know why you are going. You 
are not reliable. I suspect you,” and the 
farmer turned away. 

“Listen to me a moment, Mr. Dobbs,” 
demanded the Indian, now raising his eyes and 
gazing with a rigid stare at the man. “Listen 
to me. Injun Joe was here, but it was not 
my fault. He is my tribesman — almost my 
brother. He doesn’t do what is right, neither 
do some white men do what is right. They say 
he steals ; but there are white men who steal. I 
couldn’t put him out. I told him not to come.” 

“What was he sneaking around here for?” 
asked the man. 

“I can’t tell you — I can’t tell you now; some 
day I hope you find it out. If I must tell you 
or go, then I’ll go !” 

“Yes, Ig, you’ll go!” and he emphasized the 
order with an oath. 

“Ig! Ig!” was the reply. “You call me Ig, 
because I am an Indian. I was taught at the 
mission that I’m a man — just as much a man 


Ignatius Bararana 37 

as you,” said the defiant red man. “You have 
never heard me curse or swear as you are doing. 
I am Ig, yes, Ig — and only Ig. I’m not worth 
a real name. But I’ve learned one lesson. 
The next man I work for will call me Ignatius. 
I will be Ignatius Bararana.” 

“You will be nobody as long as you associate 
with low-down dogs like Injun Joe,” retorted 
the farmer. 

“Yes, he is a dog now — just a dog! Not as 
good as a dog!” assented the Indian. “But 
dogs sometimes save people, don’t they? He 
was good one time I Good when he was 
young! Good before he left Montana and the 
mission. But don’t some white people become 
bad?” 

“I take care of my own business, and not of 
other white people,” said the farmer. “If they 
are bad let them suffer. Let them be sent to 
jail and fined. I tend to my own business. I 
don’t want any of that kind around me — red 
or white. Do you understand?” 

The Indian did not answer. He picked up 
the corn-knife and walked slowly toward the 
house. Accompanied by the farmer he went 
to the attic room where he had slept, changed 
his overalls, and threw into an old bag the few 
things which he possessed. Not a word was 


38 Ignatius Bararana 

said. Down on the porch little Rollin Dobbs 
was playing with his horses. 

“Good-by, Roily,’' said the Indian, as he 
came out on the porch and took the tiny, deli- 
cate hand. 

“Where’re you going, Ig?” 

“Way- way off!” 

“And you’ll be back for supper and play 
‘thrashing-machine’ and mend this horse’s 
head?” 

“No, Roily, I’ll never be back again.” 

“Yes, you will,” and Roily leaped to his feet 
and took the strong hand and held it. “Yes, 
you will come back, Ig.” 

“No, your father doesn’t want me any 
more.” 

“Yes, he does; yes, he does.” 

“No, he doesn’t!” broke in the farmer, walk- 
ing out on the porch. “Ig’s a bad man and we 
don’t want him.” 

“He ain’t — he ain’t,” protested Roily. 

“Come on with me,” said the stern father, 
and he seized the boy. 

Roily hung desperately to the hand of the 
Indian. “He ain’t bad! He ain’t bad — and 
I won’t let him go !” The words were followed 
by a cuff on the head, which for a moment 
dazed the child. 


Ignatius Bararana 39 

“Go, and go fast 1” demanded the farmer of 
the Indian. “Go fast, the boy will soon forget 
you.” 

As Ignatius Bararana walked down the road 
leading to Sandpit he heard the cries of the 
child and indistinctly caught the words: “He 
ain’t bad ! He ain’t bad ! — and I won’t let him 
go! Come back, Ig! Come back! Come 
back!” Passing by the lake he frightened the 
ducks just when Walter Blakestone was about 
to get a shot. 

It was after dark when Ignatius Bararana 
reached the little village of Sandpit, which was 
a frontier town in the valley of the Loup River 
in north central Nebraska. Tradition has it 
that the depression in which the town was 
located had been dug out in a single night by a 
tornado. It lay at the foot of the sand-hills, 
and, being the terminal of a branch of the 
Union Pacific Railroad, was an active place 
for shipping grain and cattle. A church that 
would have done honor to a city parish stood in 
the middle of the village. This church was a 
land-mark for miles around, and was the pride 
of the town people and the Belgian farmers of 
the neighborhood. 

As many of the parishioners usually made 
a visit to the church every evening, the doors 


40 Ignatius Bararana 

were always open. Into the church walked 
Ignatius. The scene was not strange to him. 
In a church of almost equal size he had 
jDrayed and heard Mass when a boy, at the 
Indian Mission in Montana. He blessed him- 
self at the holy-water font, and walked slowly 
up the main aisle, and knelt in a pew near the 
' communion-railing. Before him was the dim 
glow of the sanctuary lamp. 

Bararana prayed, prayed for light, prayed 
for strength. The world was darkness for him 
now. He felt keenly the disgrace of his dis- 
missal, but his conscience told him that he had 
done no evil. One by one the devout people 
left the church. The Indian fell asleep. 

It was light when he awoke and some of the 
people of the parish were already in the church 
waiting for the Mass to begin. The parish 
priest came into the sanctuary and then went 
to the confessional. The Indian bowed his 
head in prayer for a few minutes, then made 
his confession and received holy communion at 
the Mass which followed. 

After his thanksgiving he took his carpet- 
bag and walked out on the porch. There he 
stood for some moments. Then he returned to 
the church and prayed; and after prayer went 
out into the light of morning. 


CHAPTER IV 

ALONG THE VALLEY OF THE LOUP 

A S Dr. Murt appeared on the porch, gnn in 
hand, he was greeted by his two dogs with 
hilarious barking and leaping and playing. 
Pointer was the bird dog, and Bob the duck 
hunter. 

“Poor little Bob,’^ said the doctor; “poor 
little Bob! This isn’t his day, and he must 
stay at home.” Bob seemed to understand 
the words, for at once his tail dropped and he 
slipped away to the woodshed, while Pointer 
became more boisterous, and leaped almost as 
high as his master’s head. 

Accompanied by Mrs. Murt, Walter walked 
out wearing his new hunting-suit and carrying 
his automatic in its spotless case. 

“Doesn’t he look fine!” she cried out, proud 
of the manly little fellow who had come to be a 
guest at her home. 

“A real city hunter,” remarked Dr. Murt 
laughing. “I am going to throw him in the 
river, roll him in the mud, and tear his clothes 

41 


42 Along the Valley of the Loup 

in several places, then he’ll look like a real 
hunter and not like one of those city dudes. 
But he’ll no doubt get dirty soon enough. 
I’ve changed my mind,” said he, turning to 
Walter. “I promised to go past old Dobbs’s 
place and get the decoys. Let ’em stay there 
for a day or so. In the meanwhile he’ll cool 
off. I am going to take you in the opposite 
direction.” 

Into the car leaped Pointer as the two hunt- 
ers took their places. Mrs. Murt waved her 
handkerchief and wished them good luck. 
Then over the rolling hills spun the machine. 

“We will begin our hunt in a stretch of corn- 
field in the Loup River valley,” said Dr. Murt, 
as they drove along. “We are likely to get a 
good bag of prairie chickens there. It is prob- 
able that the birds will be feeding separately. 
If one jumps I’ll give you the first shot. I’ll 
follow your aim and if you miss the bird I will 
kill it, or let me say that I will probably kill 
it. I often told you when in Chicago that I 
was a sure shot; and now I must prove my 
claim. I want to say that I am better now 
than I ever was.” 

“Suppose I can’t aim soon enough,” 
objected the boy. 

“Then I’ll be forced to shoot. But I will 


Along the Valley of the Loup 43 

wait until the bird is getting beyond range. 
Even if we do lose a few I’ll wait for you.” 

“That’s kind of you,” said Walter. 

“My dear young friend,’' put in the doctor. 
“I have been waiting, waiting for years to take 
this hunt with you. I had almost given up 
hope — the little hope I had, for I scarcely 
believed your parents would let you come so 
far. But now you are here it’s your day, and 
I am only your instructor.” 

“Can we see the birds before they fly?” the 
young hunter wished to know. 

“Yes, sometimes they run for hundreds of 
yards before they flush. It depends on the 
grass and bushes. . If they think they are pro- 
tected they will often allow you to come within 
a foot of them.” 

“Can you see them then?” 

“Not all the time. I have stood with 
Pointer sticking his nose right out before me 
and I couldn’t see a thing; then a bird would 
rise within four feet of me.” 

“Will Pointer see them first?” 

“No, he’ll smell them. It depends largely 
on the direction of the wind. For this reason 
I am going down the river and beat up against 
the wind. Those city folks never think of this. 
They’ll have their dog going with the wind and 


44 Along the Valley of the Loup 

often flushing the birds without any warning.” 

As the car sped on, Dr. Murt told W alter of 
many an experience in the valley of the Loup. 
An hour later he pointed out a stretch of corn- 
field where they were to begin the day’s sport. 

“I won’t give you any practice to-day,” said 
the doctor, as Pointer led them into the corn- 
field. “Only remember this; if the bird flies 
directly away from you, shoot right at it. 
If it flies to either side shoot in front of it. 
Now I’ll be right behind you and almost shoot 
over your head. But there is no danger. 
Shoot just as quick as you can at the first bird 
that jumps. If several get up at once, fire to 
the right and I’ll use my judgment about my 
pick.” 

All was silent now except the rustle of dead 
weeds under foot and the sighing of the wind 
among the corn-stalks. 

“Look,” whispered Walter pointing over- 
head, “there is a sea-gull. I didn’t know they 
came so far away from the lakes.” 

“It’s one of the secrets of nature,” replied 
the doctor. “They are generally alone and 
they never alight.” 

On they walked in silence. To watch a 
trained hunting dog is one of the joys of the 
sportsman. At times Pointer bent to the 


Along the Valley of the Loup 45 

earth, then he leaned forward. Again he 
paused and waited for some sound. At times 
he stood motionless as a statue, a perfect model 
for a painter. The eyes of Dr. Murt followed 
every motion of the dog. 

‘‘They have been feeding here this morning,” 
whispered the doctor, dropping behind the boy. 
“Don’t you notice that Pointer is getting nerv- 
ous? Slowly now, right behind him. They 
may have gone away for some distance, but 
they were here,” he continued. “Pointer will 
let us know in a few minutes. 

“Right on! Right on!” said the master to 
the dog. “He’s getting them, he’s getting 
them. There! there! He has set one. Go 
on slowly now toward the dog and before you 
reach Pointer the bird will fly up.” 

“Whir-r-r!” 

“Bang!” went Walter’s gun. 

“Bang!” followed the doctor’s and the bird 
dropped to the ground. “You missed it, but 
it was a hard shot! Get ready again. The 
covey seems scattered.” 

A few feet farther and Pointer again came 
to a stand. 

“Don’t get excited now — don’t — get — ex- 
c — i — t — e — d,” drawled out the instructor. 
“Slowly — slowly — ” 


46 Along the Valley of the Loup 

“Whir-r-r-rr-rr-rr-rr,” four birds were up, 
and all to the left. 

Walter brought down one and the doctor got 
two. 

“Fine!” cried the lad in undisguised admi- 
ration of his own shot. And he started for- 
ward to secure his prize. In doing so he 
flushed six more birds. He was not ready to 
Are, and, moreover, he stood in the way of the 
doctor. 

“See what you did!” remonstrated the latter 
with a laugh. “Always stand until you are 
sure that all the birds are up. The dog can 
find the dead ones afterward.” 

“Well, here is mine anyway,” and the happy 
youth held the dead chicken high above his 
head. 

“Do you know why you missed that first 
shot?” asked the doctor. 

“I was too excited.” 

“That may have partly been the reason; but 
it was an old chicken. The old chickens gen- 
erally flush first. They are twice as quick as 
the young ones, that is, those hatched out this 
last summer. It takes a quick shot to get one. 
When hunting alone I frequently let the first 
one go, and then follow up the others. It 


Along the Valley of the Loup 47 

requires time to learn all these things. Hunt- 
ing, like everything else, requires not only 
practice but observation. Many people never 
become hunters because they don’t observe. 
They fire and load, and keep right on through 
the season, and are no better at the close than 
they were in the beginning.” 

By this time Pointer had brought in the 
game, and the hunters were ready to look for a 
second covey. 

‘T am not going to put a shell in my gun,” 
said the doctor, as they walked on. ‘T am 
going to watch you and give you suggestions. 
The next time Pointer finds chickens take a 
hasty look at the ground. See just where the 
clusters of grass are thickest. I have never 
been able to give an exact rule, but I generally 
pick out the place where the chickens are. As 
soon as Pointer takes a stand glance quickly 
over the ground and let me know where you 
think the chickens have hid. I’ll do the same. 
Let us see whether we agree. If you miss 
your first shot, and there are several birds, 
don’t follow up the first one, but turn to the 
next. Have the gun set for a full discharge, 
and try to empty the magazine.” 

By noon Walter had killed three more chick- 


48 Along the Valley of the Loup 

ens, although he had missed many shots. 
Four shots were all that he had been able to get 
at any one covey. 

They went to a farmer’s house where Dr. 
Murt telephoned to his wife to find out whether 
there were any sick-calls. The reply came 
back that Isidore Dobbs had rung up twice. 

“Oh! let him call all day,” answered the doc- 
tor, quite provoked at the action of the farmer. 
“I’ll go over to-morrow and get the decoys and 
explain about the accident in shooting toward 
his barn.” 

After lunch the hunting was resumed, and 
before dark twenty-four chickens had been 
bagged. When the day’s sport was over and 
the two hunters were spinning homeward in 
the automobile, two chickens flew in front of 
the machine and lit in a stubble-field close to 
the road. 

“Slip two shells into your gun, and run over 
there and try your luck. Take Pointer with 
you,” suggested the doctor. 

Pointer set the birds only a short distance 
from where they had dropped into the stubble. 
Up they flew, one to the right and the other 
to the left. 

''Bang! BangT went the automatic, and 
the two birds fell. 


Along the Valley of the Loup 49 

Walter took off his cap and made a low bow 
to the doctor. 

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” cried Dr. Murt, “a 
great ending for a fine day’s hunt.” 

On the way home Dr. Murt gave further in- 
structions about hunting and narrated many 
of his experiences when out after game birds. 
Then he began to explain about the formation 
of sand-hills. “I used to tramp these hills as 
a boy,” said he, “and often wondered how this 
great world of sand was formed. As I was 
interested I got books and began to read. 
Just think of it for a moment. There are 
eighteen thousand square miles or nearly 
twelve million acres in this sand-hill region. 
Deep below the hills are strata of sandstone 
and shale. In years to come there will be im- 
mense quarries here, for the stone is of a high 
grade for building. The whole country was 
at one time covered with water, and sand, 
gravel, silt, and clay were washed down from 
the east side of the Rocky Mountains over 
what is now a large part of Nebraska.” 

The doctor’s learned explanation was inter- 
rupted by Walter, who wished to know where 
the water came from. 

Dr. Murt had to acknowledge that science 
had not solved all the mysteries of nature. 


50 Along the Valley of the Loup 

Still he claimed that he had made a special 
study of the subject and was convinced that he 
understood the formation of the sand-hills. 
He knew, too, the various kinds of grass and 
shrubbery, and could name the flowers of the 
different seasons. To him the sand-hills were 
not monotonous and undulating slopes void of 
natural beauties. 

Nature is bounteous and prodigal at times 
in clothing the hills and valleys with rarest 
tints. During the early days of May the sand- 
berry is seen on every hill, mingling with clus- 
ters of bunch-grass and bearing upon its bushy 
and short twigs great clusters of white and 
pinkish flowers. There are areas, too, of wild 
roses with flexible, thorny stems. In summer 
thousands of showy blossoms fill the air with 
exquisite perfume. But of all the flowers the 
yucca plant with its spikes of whitish blossoms 
is most conspicuous. The hills are covered 
with yucca, and it extends down into the val- 
leys, for miles and tens of miles the undulating 
hills become a sea of white — all the world 
seems an endless flower-bed of yucca. 

While the doctor talked to the boy of the 
wild beauties of the valley through which they 
were driving, he acknowledged that he thought 
seriously of running for the State assembly so 


Along the Valley of the Loup 51 

that he could introduce certain laws for the 
prevention of prairie fires and the restoration 
of soil in various sections where winds and sand 
had destroyed the vegetation. He promised 
that after supper he would give Walter a book 
to read — “The Geology of Nebraska.” 


CHAPTER V 


ROLLY 

T he book on the geology of Nebraska was 
not interesting to Walter. He looked 
at the various maps outlining the water- 
courses and the sand-hills and the prairie 
lands; he turned the pages where there were 
colored pictures of wild grass and wild flowers, 
but he could find nothing that caught his atten- 
tion. 

He put the book on the table and took from 
his pocket a letter — an old letter cramped and 
dirty, the one that Dr. Murt had written urg- 
ing him to spend the fall and winter in Ne- 
braska. Walter almost regretted that the 
invitation had been sent or accepted. In fact 
he was lonesome and homesick. His parents 
were in Europe, his two little sisters in a con- 
vent, and he, Walter, was out in a lonely 
house among the sand-hills of Nebraska. 

When Dr. Murt was a medical student in 
Chicago he had boarded with Walter’s parents. 

The Blakestones, though not wealthy, did not 

62 


58 


Roily 

take boarders ; and it was by mere chance that 
young Murt, the medical student, had called 
at the residence with a friend, mentioned some- 
thing about his looking for a rooming-house. 
Mrs. Blakestone was attracted by the young 
man before her. His regular, somewhat oval 
face was tanned. Innocence and simplicity 
were written upon his features. Though big- 
shouldered and manly there was a certain shy- 
ness and reserve in his words and actions. 

Before she realized the offer which she made, 
Mrs. Blakestone had assured the stranger that 
he would be welcome as a member of the 
family. 

No one had ever regretted that Frederic 
Murt had come to board with the Blakestones. 
During the four years of his medical course he 
remained with the family. He came and 
went, not as a stranger, but as a son. Not 
once did he abuse the privilege given him. He 
was like a big brother to the only boy of the 
family, Walter. They became inseparable 
companions. They went to church together, 
to confession on Saturday, and knelt side by 
side at the communion-railing on Sunday 
morning. They sat in the bleachers at ball- 
games, and took long walks together in the 
city parks. 


54 


Roily 

Frederic Murt was a born hunter. When a 
mere child he hunted rabbits and quail and 
doves in the orchard and fields near the house. 
Then he became an expert at killing prairie 
chickens and jack-rabbits. Later on his chief 
sport was duck- and goose-hunting. When 
fall and winter came he chafed under the re- 
straint of city life. How he longed to be back 
in Nebraska where ducks were cleaving the 
air and the wild geese were calling from on 
high. 

So many incidents of hunting had Fred 
Murt rehearsed to Walter, at the home of the 
latter, that the boy had several times asked to 
accompany his older friend home during the 
summer vacation. The request was always re- 
fused, with the indefinite remark that some 
time later he might have an opportunity to 
make the visit. 

Five months had now passed since Frederic 
Murt graduated with honor at the medical 
school in Chicago. He had recently married 
and was practising in his little native town — 
Sandpit. Time and distance had not sepa- 
rated the boy and the student, for they cor- 
responded regularly, and the young physician 
had once visited the city and called on his 
friends. 


55 


Roily 

Then an occasion arose which brought to 
Walter Blakestone the coveted visit to Ne- 
braska. His parents had long wished to visit 
the aged parents of Mrs. Blakestone, who were 
still living in Ireland. It was arranged for 
the two girls to go to a convent for the year, 
and Walter to boarding-school. But the boy 
pleaded to spend the year with his former 
friend in Nebraska. After an interchange of 
letters Dr. Murt had offered to teach the boy 
the matter of the second year of high school, 
and guaranteed that he would be able to go 
into the third year when the parents returned, 
or if they came back by the first of February, 
Walter could go into the second year. 

Dr. Murt was familiar with the course of 
studies and assured the parents that he would 
keep his word about the teaching. In fact, he 
was so grateful for all that had been done for 
him during his four years of study that he was 
only too glad to get this chance to return in 
some slight way the many favors bestowed 
upon him. 

The parents, who trusted the young physi- 
cian, finally yielded to the entreaties of their 
son. Walter had spent six weeks with an aunt 
before going to Nebraska. It was now the 
latter part of October. The boy’s parents 


56 


Roily 

were in Europe, his two sisters in the con- 
vent, and he was sitting at a little table in a 
lonely room in a quiet town of central Ne- 
braska. 

The boy was tired after the day’s hunt and 
felt lonely. He was reading the last letter 
which Dr. Murt had written to him just before 
he left the city. He grew more lonely as he 
read ; big tears gathered in his eyes until finally 
he rested his head upon his arm, leaned over 
on the table and sobbed. 

The door was quietly opened and, unob- 
served, Mrs. Murt came into the room. She 
was surprised and grieved to see the boy cry- 
ing. Knowing in her prudence that it was 
best not to disturb the little visitor, she quietly 
slipped from the room. 

A few minutes later Walter was disturbed 
by the telephone and caught snatches of the 
conversation. Evidently Dr. Murt was talk- 
ing with Dobbs. 

“Yes — this is Dr. Murt . . .” 

“Yes, yes . . .” 

“Well, what’s the trouble . . .” 

“Oh, little Roily’s sick . . .” 

“That’s too bad . . .” 

“And it won’t be safe to wait . . .” 

“Of course I’ll do you a favor . . .” 


Roily 57 

“Yes, yes, I’ll do you a favor. I’ll come 
right now. Good-by!” 

A few seconds later the doctor came bluster- 
ing into the room. He fully intended to ex- 
aggerate matters and joke with his young 
visitor. But he suddenly turned and bent over 
him, “You’ve been crying, Walter. Sick? 
Tired after the hunt?” 

“No,” whimpered the lad. 

“Homesick, perhaps?” 

“Y-e-s,” said the boy, unable to check the 
tears. 

“Don’t mind that. The first year I was in 
Chicago studying medicine I used to cry every 
night. I was then almost a grown man. It’s 
a good sign to get homesick ; but it will all pass 
away soon. Come, come on and ride with me 
to old Dobbs.” 

The boy stood up, but hung his head in 
shame, trying in vain to stifie the tears. “I 
don’t want to go there,” he muttered. 

“He’s forgotten all about the shooting — 
never referred to it.” 

“What does he want us for, then?” 

“He didn’t ask for you at all; I only thought 
that you would enjoy the ride. It is such a 
brisk, clear night.” 

“And he didn’t say anything about me?” 


58 


Roily 

“No! no! It is a sick-call. His little son 
is not well. He has urged me to come right 
away, and would take no excuse. Come on 
with me. You can sit in the machine, for I 
shall be in the house only a few minutes. 
Come on! The ride will do you good.’’ 

“I don’t think I can stay here all the year,” 
said the boy as he took his place in the machine. 

“Your parents will probably be back in 
January and you can go home then.” 

“I didn’t know I’d get this way,” acknowl- 
edged the lad. 

“I think the more of you for it,” were the 
assuring words of the physician. 

“Could I go back to Chicago and stay with 
my aunt?” 

“Certainly, but remember that she has a 
large family. Try it for a week or so. In a 
few days we’ll camp out on the Loup river 
and hunt ducks. After that you can write to 
your aunt and ask to stay with her. That is, 
if you insist on it. But you mustn’t spoil my 
camping. I have been planning for it for 
weeks and waiting for you to come. You’ll 
do that for me, won’t you?” 

“I’ll do anything for you, doctor — if I could 
only stop crying — I didn’t know I was such a 
baby.” 


59 


Roily 

“No, you are not a baby. Don’t be 
ashamed. You are going through an experi- 
ence that many of us have faced.” 

All the while the automobile was speeding 
along the road toward the house of Isidore 
Dobbs. 

The farmer was at the gate waiting to re- 
ceive the physician. “It’s serious, very seri- 
ous,” he whispered as Dr. Murt alighted from 
the automobile. 

“Let us hope not,” was the answer. The 
two walked slowly into the house, leaving the 
boy in the machine. 

“Are you very sick, my little fellow?” were 
the words of Dr. Murt as he stood at the bed- 
side of his patient. 

“I want Ig,” whimpered little Roily. 

“What do you want?” 

“I want Ig.” 

“I can’t understand him,” replied the physi- 
cian, turning to the farmer. 

“Oh, that cussed Indian — Ig we called 'him. 
I sent him away yesterday.” 

“I want Ig — I want Ig,” broke in the lad. 
The boy was moaning and moaning and all the 
while in half-stifled words he repeated; “I 
want Ig. I want Ig.” 

“He has no fever,” reported the doctor after 


60 


Roily 

an examination. ‘‘His heart and pulse are 
just a trifle above normal, but this comes from 
excitement and crying.’' 

“He cried all night and all this blessed day,” 
affirmed the farmer. 

After a thorough examination of the patient 
the physician asked, “What did he have for 
supper?” 

“He wouldn’t eat,” replied the father. Dr. 
Murt motioned to the man to follow, and the 
two took a seat at the end of the room. “Mr. 
Dobbs,” began the physician, “I can save your 
son, for he is not dangerously ill, but I want 
you to promise to follow my advice.” 

“Anything, anything you say,” and the 
farmer grasped the hand of the physician. 

“In the first place, Mr. Dobbs, this boy is 
suffering from malnutrition. He has not 
been getting sufficient nourishment. In other 
words, he hasn’t had enough to eat. From 
what you tell me of the Indian trying to work 
on the farm and do the cooking and judging 
from the scanty supplies in the house, the boy 
has been neglected. Yesterday there was a 
young Belgian and his wife in Sandpit look- 
ing for a place to settle. Bring the couple 
here, give them a part of the house, and let the 
wife do the cooking. Then let the boy go to 


61 


Roily 

school. Let him have companionship like 
other boys. Invite the neighboring children 
to your house and encourage him to visit them. 
It’s this unnatural life that you are forcing 
your child to lead, together with insufficient 
food, that has made the child sick. The In- 
dian’s leaving hurried the matter, but the trou- 
ble would have come sooner or later. It is 
probably better that it came just at this time. 
With companionship and care the boy will 
soon be well. I am sorry that you sent the 
Indian away; but it is too late, for I know him 
well and I feel sure that he will not return. 
With the Belgian people you will not need 
him.” 

‘T will follow your advice,” was the meek 
reply. 

‘T have something else to suggest, but I will 
tell you later.” 

“Anything, anything,” said the man. 

Again the doctor approached the bed. “Ig 
can not come to-night, my boy,” he whispered. 
“Now go to sleep like a nice little fellow and 
to-morrow I’ll have something good for you.” 

Roily had ceased to moan and was resting 
quietly. Soon he fell into a natural sleep. 

“He will probably sleep soundly the entire 
night,” explained the physician as he took his 


62 


Roily 

hat. ‘'I am sure there is no danger. I will 
be back early to-morrow. If you follow my 
advice, Mr. Dobbs, there will be no danger.” 

“I certainly will,” said the farmer. 

“Good night!” 

“Good night, and thank you — thank you!” 


CHAPTER VI 

GETTING AT THE DIFFICULTY 

‘‘C^LEEPY?” asked Dr. Murt, as he stepped 
into the car. 

“I was dreaming about those prairie chick- 
ens,” yawned Walter. 

“I have found a friend for you,” continued 
the physician. “The finest little fellow in the 
State. All he needs is some one to play with. 
I am going to bring you back with me to-mor- 
row. How would you like to stay a day or so 
with Rollin Dobbs?” 

“You said his father was the meanest man 
in Nebraska,” remarked the boy. 

“So I did, but he has changed. He has 
changed since I left you and went into the 
house. He has promised to follow my advice 
in regard to the boy, to let him go to school 
and be like other boys. I am going to get a 
young Belgian and his wife to come out here 
and keep house for old Dobbs, and I want you 
to be a friend of little Roily. Then you can 

63 


64 Getting at the Difficulty 

hunt ducks right in the barn. You can put 
the decoys in a place where you can shoot from 
the wagon-shed near the barn.” 

“That will be swell,” said the boy. 

Before they reached the home of Dr. Murt, 
Walter was not only willing to spend a day 
with young Roily, but was anxious to make 
the experiment. That very night the doctor 
found the Belgian, Mr. Rudolph Seyon, and 
his wife and made the offer in regard to 
the Dobbs household. As the newly-married 
couple were without means they agreed to the 
offer, and were only too glad to be able to set- 
tle down so soon. While the final terms could 
not be arranged definitely that night. Dr. Murt 
assured them that he was practically author- 
ized to secure their help. At the grocery he 
ordered a supply of provisions to be delivered 
at his house early on the following morning. 
The same was done with the butcher. Dr. 
Murt went security for the payment, but had 
the bills made out to farmer Dobbs. 

Early on the following morning the Seyons 
and Walter, accompanied by Bob, were in the 
doctor’s car spinning over the sand-hills to- 
ward the farm of Isidore Dobbs. 

“You are to act just as if you owned the 
house,” were the words of explanation to Mrs. 


65 


Getting at the Difficulty 

Seyon. “As soon as we reach the house go 
right into the kitchen and cook the steak for 
the sick boy, warm the bread and make some 
coffee. Remember that you are to ask Mr. 
Dobbs for nothing. I am running the house 
to-day. When I leave be sure to take care of 
the boy; be sure to get him sufficient to eat. 
That’s all he needs, unless I misjudged his case 
last night. And Rudolph, you go out to the 
barn and see about the stock. Take care of 
things just as if they belonged to you. I am 
going to remain all day. In case of doubt ask 
me. Now remember, ask me.” 

Isidore Dobbs was not only surprised, but 
astonished. As soon as the automobile drew 
up in front of the house the physician and his 
three companions alighted and went into the 
dwelling. Bob, who had been brought along, 
was left tied in the car. No attention was paid 
to the farmer; he was treated as if he were only 
a guest in the house. Dr. Murt had taken him 
at his word and had assumed complete charge 
of the household. 

Rollin was awakened from a deep sleep, a 
sleep that had not been interrupted during the 
entire night. He muttered a few words about 
Ig, but was assured that his Indian friend 
would be gone for a while, and that in the 


66 Getting at the Difficulty 

meantime a little companion had come to play 
with him. 

To the utter amazement of his father, little 
Roily was soon playing with some tops and 
marbles with which Dr. Murt had thought- 
fully provided Walter. And best of all. 
Roily was not sick; but he was hungry, very 
hungry. 

Before an hour had passed the Belgian 
woman announced breakfast. And what a 
breakfast! Beefsteak and buns, coffee and 
butter and honey. There was no salt in the 
house and the visitors had not brought cream, 
as they thought that milk at least would be 
found on the farm. Still no one could com- 
plain. Isidore Dobbs was invited to come to 
breakfast as if he were a stranger. He obeyed 
without a word, and took his place beside 
Roily. Opposite sat the doctor and Walter. 
Soon the Belgian came in and announced that 
he had fed the stock; then he, too, sat down at 
the table. 

Dr. Murt did not allow his plans to be in- 
terrupted for a moment. Farmer Dobbs had 
given him his permission to do anything he 
wished for the good of the boy. The doctor 
knew that success depended on his taking com- 
plete charge of the household. He did not in- 


67 


Getting at the Difficulty 

tend to give the farmer even a chance to object 
to anything. Dobbs was told just what rooms 
in the rear of the building were to be assigned 
to the Belgian family, what work the wife and 
husband were to do, and what pay they were 
to receive. Rollin was to go to school and 
Mr. Dobbs was to do only some slight work 
around the house. 

Later on Dr. Murt intended to get at the 
bottom of the farmer’s financial difficulties, but 
he felt that he had gone far enough that day 
in using his arbitrary powers. 

The boys had scarcely finished eating when 
Dr. Murt jumped from his chair and began: 

“Come on, let us go duck-hunting. I will 
arrange the decoys and you two can watch for 
ducks from the barn. Walter, you can run up 
here and let me know if ducks light and I will 
slip down with my gun.” 

“Are you mad, doctor?” asked Mr. Dobbs, 
startled by the announcement. 

“Mad? Not yet, I hope!” 

“But that boy is sick and you are sending 
him out into the damp.” 

“He needs the fresh air,” replied the physi- 
cian. “Remember, now, that I am handling 
the case. I will wrap him up well and carry 
him down to the barn.” 


68 


Getting at the Difficulty 

“Well, you are handling the case, but don’t 
kill the boy by foolishness!” 

“The boy isn’t sick,” insisted Dr. Murt. “1 
had some doubts about his case last night, but 
the doubts have passed. All that little Rollin 
needs is fresh air, sufficient to eat, and boys to 
play with. What do you think?” asked the 
doctor turning to the boy at his side. 

“I was hungry.” 

“But are you sick?” the doctor wanted to 
know. 

“Soon’s Ig comes back I’ll be well.” 

“He may be gone some time, but Walter 
here can play with you.” 

“Yes, yes,” broke in Walter, “we’ll be the 
best of friends, and I like to be in the big barn 
waiting for the ducks.” 

“Well, well,” said the farmer, “it is all with 
the doctor. If he wants Roily to watch for 
the ducks, I don’t object.” 

Rollin soon forgot about Ig. He was 
wrapped in a heavy blanket and carried by Dr. 
Murt to the barn, then the physician left the 
boys and drove around the lake to get the de- 
coy ducks. 

Walter was shown a machine used for win- 
nowing grass-seed and was asked to play 
“thrashing.” Playing “thrashing” consisted 


69 


Getting at the Difficulty 

in turning the fan in this machine. It did not 
exactly appeal to the visitor, especially since 
he understood that he was to do the turning; 
but he had come to be a companion to Rollin, 
so he entered with spirit into the new sport, 
and began to turn the rather heavy fan. 

“You blow the whistle first,” explained Rol- 
lin. 

“Where is the whistle?” 

“There ain’t any; you just whistle yourself 
like Ig done.” 

“Then I’ll whistle and start the thrashing- 
wheels.” 

“They ain’t wheels,” remonstrated Rollin, 
“they’re a thrashing-machine.” 

“Then I’ll turn the thrashing-machine,” 
were the words of the accommodating youth. 

“But you didn’t put any oil on the wheels 
like Ig done.” 

“Where is the oil?” 

“You just take a stick like this,” and Rollin 
with a piece of wood poured the imaginary oil 
on the mechanism, for this was Ig’s way of 
doing it. 

“Is it ready now?” Walter wanted to know. 

“You have to get up steam,” replied Rollin. 
“You go just like this: ‘Shu-shu-u-u-u-u-u-’ 
like Ig done.” 


70 


Getting at the Difficulty 

“All right, we’ll get up steam,” and Walter 
imitated his instructor: “Shu-shu-u-u-u-u- 

U-U-” 

Everything seemed ready. Walter with a 
“Shu-shu-u-u-u-u-u-u-” and a whistle began 
turning the wheels on the winnowing-machine. 
Rollin meanwhile fed the imaginary thresher 
with imaginary straw, and gathered up imag- 
inary bags of wheat. 

In a short time Walter was completely ex- 
hausted and lay down upon the barn floor to 
rest. 

Dr. Murt soon returned with the announce- 
ment that he had already placed the decoys, 
and that the boys were to watch and give warn- 
ing if a flock of ducks dropped into the lake. 

“Here is a crack in the side, through which 
you have a fine view,” said he, after examining 
the boards in the barn. “Take your turn 
watching and if any ducks light Walter can 
run up to the house and let me know.” 

“Can we play thrashing-machine?” asked 
Rollin. 

“No, let us play watching ducks,” pro- 
tested Walter, for he failed to see any fun in 
the monotonous work of turning the wheels of 
the winnowing-machine. 

Rollin at once assented, and the two, began 


71 


Getting at the Difficulty 

the watch, while the doctor went to the car, got 
Bob and the gun, and then returned to the 
house to have a further interview with the 
farmer. 

Dr. Murt was determined to learn the truth 
about the financial standing of Mr. Dobbs, and 
felt that it would be best to get right at the 
matter without any parley or introduction. 
He found the farmer still sitting at the break- 
fast-table. 

“Mr. Dobbs,” he began, “I have come here 
to-day not only to look after the health of the 
boy but to help you. Pardon me, but I know 
that you are in trouble. The people around 
speak of your wealth, your gold — the gold that 
you are hiding around the house. I don’t be- 
lieve a word of it. You are not well; you are 
worrying and I am convinced that you are in 
financial trouble. I believe that you have lost 
money.” 

The farmer was slow to talk about his pri- 
vate affairs; but the physician had won his 
confidence and esteem. Gradually he told the 
story of his troubles — his speculation in some 
mines in Montana, the loss of his investments, 
and more speculations to make up for losses. 
Finally he concluded by acknowledging that 
his farm was mortgaged and that he had not 


72 Getting at the DifftcuUy 

\ 

sufficient to pay for the breakfast which the 
doctor had provided. 

For two hours they talked the matter over 
and finally agreed to let the Belgian family 
rent the farm. Mr. Dobbs was to remain 
there until things could be definitely arranged. 

The conversation was interrupted by Wal- 
ter, who ran up, all out of breath, and an- 
nounced that a big flock of ducks was among 
the decoys. 

Seizing his gun, the doctor rushed off to the 
barn, with Bob at his heels. “Ha, ha!” he 
laughed as he gazed through the hole in the 
side of the barn. “Tame ducks from the 
neighbors’! Not wild ducks at all!” 

“Walter said they was wild,” put in Rollin. 

“So did you,” asserted Walter. 

“Just a moment,” whispered the doctor. 
“There is a flock of wild ducks just lighting 
among the decoys — a big flock, too! Just 
keep quiet here, boys, and I’ll try to get up on 
them.” 

From their hiding-place in the barn the two 
boys watched Dr. Murt creeping toward the 
lake followed by Bob. He managed to keep 
behind a row of corn shocks until he was quite 
close to the coveted prizes. As they were 
swimming among the tame ducks, he had to 


73 


Getting at the Difficulty 

flush them before shooting. Leaping to his 
feet, he dashed toward the flock. With a 
splash and a flutter the ducks were in the air. 
The first shot brought down three, and at each 
of the five shots that followed, a single duck 
fell into the water. 

Soon Bob was out in the water frightening 
away the tame ducks and bringing in those 
which had been killed. Later two happy boys 
entered the house, Walter carrying a duck in 
each hand and Rollin bearing upon his shoul- 
der a big drake, while the doctor brought up 
the rear with the five remaining birds. 


CHAPTER VII 


ON THE BANKS OF THE LITTLE LOUP 

T the request of Dr, Murt, Walter spent 



the three following days with Rollin. 
The latter regained his strength under the care 
of Mrs. Seyon, and became so interested in the 
company of his little friend that he entirely 
forgot the Indian, Ignatius. 

In the meanwhile Dr. Murt came daily to 
the house and held long conferences with 
Mr. Dobbs, whose property he was endeavor- 
ing to save. The Ingram Real Estate Com- 
pany of Omaha informed the physician that 
some one was negotiating to take up the mort- 
gage, but would not give the name. In the 
meanwhile Dr. Murt advanced a few dollars 
to the farmer and at the same time assured 
him that he would do all in his power to assist 
him. 

It was now the early part of November and 
the ducks were just beginning to fly south. 
Dr. Murt always hunted with one companion, 
and this year the companion was to be Walter 


74 


On the Banks of the Little Loup 75 

Blakestone. About thirty miles from Sand- 
pit, on the banks of the little Loup River, was 
a hunting lodge owned by some business men 
of Omaha. As the owners were to camp there 
at the close of November, Dr. Murt had ar- 
ranged to use the lodge at the beginning of 
the month. 

Walter bade good-by to Rollin, promising 
to return after a few days. On the following 
morning the physician and his boy friend, to- 
gether with the indispensable Bob, were speed- 
ing over the sand-hills toward the banks of the 
Loup with plenty of provisions for a six-day 
trip. The whole conversation was about the 
troubles at the Dobbs home. 

“Has little Rollin been sick any of these 
days?” asked the physician. 

“Indeed he has. Dr. Murt.” 

“How?” 

“It’s just this way. He don't seem to have 
any breath. When he plays thrashing-ma- 
chine and turns the handle for a short time 
why he can’t breathe. He lies on the floor and 
nearly dies.” 

“I have to examine into that as soon as I 
return,” said the physician. 

“Then,” continued the boy, “when we ran 
over to catch a muskrat before it reached its 


76 On the Banks of the Little Loup 

hole he was so out of breath I had to carry him 
back.” 

“That is bad. There must be something 
the matter with his heart,” mused the physician 
gravely. 

“He told me, too, they didn’t have much to 
eat since his mother died,” said Walter. 
“Sometimes Ig made soup out of horse corn — 
just ordinary horse corn, boiled all day and 
softened. For a while they hved on some 
chickens, but Mr. Dobbs sold all the chickens. 
Then he sold the cows and there wasn’t any 
milk to drink.” 

“So I heard, so I heard!” repeated the 
physician. “Just as soon as I get back I must 
look into all these matters.” 

“I want to spend a week with him and trap 
muskrats,” asserted Walter. “We can sell 
the skins and I’ll give the money to Rollin.” 

“How would you like to trap wolves?” asked 
the man. 

“Gee, but that would be fun!” asserted the 
boy. “But how far would we have to go ?” 

“Just where you are going. There have 
always been wolves along the Loup River. 
And for coyotes, you may hear them to-night.” 

“What is a coyote, Dr. Murt?” 

“Well, it is something like a dog and a wolf. 


On the Banks of the Little Loup 77 

It must be a small wolf. It is the meanest, 
slyest animal in all the West. It will sneak 
around the houses any night and carry off a 
young lamb or pig. But there is something 
for you to see,” said the physician pointing 
toward a number of mounds along the hillside. 
“That is a prairie-dog colony.” 

“I read about them in Washington Irving,” 
replied the boy. 

“And what did he say?” 

“Let me see. Now I recollect, he said 
that the prairie dogs had strange companions, 
that dogs and owls and snakes lived in the same 
hole.” 

“There are two of the owls,” and the doctor 
pointed toward the birds sailing over the col- 
ony. 

“Did you ever see the snakes?” asked the 
boy. 

“No, but there is a colony of dogs not far 
from the Dobbs farm; you and Rollin can 
investigate for yourselves.” 

“How far is it?” asked Walter. 

“Oh, about three miles.” 

“Rollin can’t walk that far, he’s too weak,” 
affirmed Walter. 

After speeding on for some miles. Dr. Hurt 
brought his car to a stop. “Look over to your 


78 On the Banks of the Little Loup 

right,” said he. “See that cluster of bushes 
almost perfectly round? That’s a hackberry 
pocket. In the middle you will notice a de- 
pression made by the great blue herons, which 
nest there in the spring and summer. We’ll 
take a walk over there. Sometimes the birds 
return to their nesting-place in the fall. Mr. 
Pole, the curator of the State Museum at Lin- 
coln, has always been kind to me and very gen- 
erous in sending me books and information. 
He is anxious to get a few more specimens of 
the heron. We’ll take our chances on finding 
one.” 

“Must I bring my gun?” asked the boy. 

“Yes, certainly, but tie Bob. We don’t 
need him with us now. We may possibly run 
into the family. Just blaze away at the col- 
ony.” They had gone but a few feet from the 
road when the doctor paused and said: “No 
use! There they go. Good-by, Mr. Heron, 
good-by!” 

Walter looked up and saw three graceful 
figures with outstretched necks sailing over the 
hills. 

“It seems impossible to get up on them,” 
remarked the man, turning back toward the 
car. “They are on the lookout all the time. I 
could kill them during the nesting season, but 


On the Banks of the Little Loup 79 

then it is so hard to preserve the specimens. 
But we may get a shot later.” 

Just as he spoke a prairie chicken rose before 
him. He fired and the bird fell. “Couldn’t 
miss such a shot,” he laughed. “It will come 
in fine for lunch.” 

It was noon when the lodge was reached. 
The two hunters alighted from the car, untied 
Bob, and the three made their way toward the 
building. 

“What do you think of our house?” asked 
Dr. Murt, as he removed the padlock and 
swung open the rustic door. 

“It looks warm,” replied the boy. 

“Yes, we may need a warm place before the 
six days are passed; and later if we come to 
hunt wolves we may strike zero weather.” 

The lodge stood in the midst of a narrow 
woods of yellow pine, with clusters of cedar 
and green ash. It was a pleasant change from 
the treeless country over which they had 
di’iven. The hut was of rough timber with a 
tin roof and huge fireplace, which served both 
for cooking and heating. There were sleep- 
ing-cots for four and a large canoe. Cooking 
utensils were soon carried into the lodge and a 
hasty meal was enjoyed. 

“Now for the decoys and the blind and the 


80 On the Banks of the Little Loup 

ducks,” said Dr. Murt as he led the way 
toward the river. “You will notice,” he con- 
tinued, “that the river makes a big bend here 
and forms a marsh fully half a mile in width. 
It is full of wild rice. Just an ideal place for 
ducks. Of course we take our chances this 
time of the year. We are about three weeks 
too early for the best sport; but later on there 
are so many hunters that there is no fun. In 
fact, it is dangerous and every year one or more 
are shot. It isn’t often that any one is killed; 
but I don’t like the prospects of carrying 
around duck-shot under my skin or losing an 
eye. Now let us take a look at the lake and 
the rice-banks before we settle on a place for 
the blind.” 

“What is the wild rice like?” asked the boy. 

“It has a long head with a beard something 
like rye. In the beginning of the season the 
ducks eat the heads, which float along the sur- 
face. Later they dive for the kernels that 
have sunk to the bottom.” 

Standing on the bank the hunters looked out 
over the sluggish stream. In many places 
water-lilies and cattails were so thick that the 
surface was entirely obscured. It did not take 
Dr. Murt long to decide. His experienced 
eye caught sight of a dense clump of cattails 


On the Banks of the Little Loup 81 

rising fully five feet above the water. Near by 
were many clusters of rice, while the absence 
of any growth a few feet away showed that the 
stream suddenly deepened. 

“There is the place,” he said. “We can 
build our blind among those cattails.” 

“How can we row through them?” asked the 
boy. 

“They seem to be thick,” answered the man, 
“but it isn’t hard to push the canoe in among 
them. First we must cut four long poles to 
drive down into the bottom of the river. I was 
fooled once in the length of the poles. After 
cutting them I found that the river was deeper 
than I had thought, so all my work was for 
nothing. Let us get the canoe and find out 
how deep the water is.” 

It was pleasant sport guiding the frail canoe 
out among the river growth. The water was 
only three feet deep, so that an eight-foot pole 
was sufficient. Returning to shore Dr. Murt 
cut the poles and sharpened the lower ends. 
Then loading them in the canoe he rowed out 
to the place which he had selected. It required 
three trips to bring out sufficient pine-branches 
to complete the blind. 

“A perfect piece of work,” cried the doctor 
with enthusiasm as he tied the last pine-branch 


82 On the Banks of the Little Loup 

on a pole. “Mr. Duck will fly right over us 
and never know we are here. Now we’ll go 
and get the decoys. Then we’ll take a good 
meal and then — then — the hunting season is 
on ! Good old hunting time ! — old hunting 
time!” 


CHAPTER VIII 

IN THE DUCK-BLIND 

W ITH Dr. Murt no hunting expedition 
was a failure. He enjoyed every hour 
and every detail of the work. He was an 
experienced cook, too, and took real pleasure 
in preparing his own meals. If he bagged his 
game he was pleased ; but even when he 
returned home without a shot he seemed 
equally satisfied. 

“You must learn to dress and cook your 
game,” he remarked to Walter as he picked up 
the prairie-chicken which he had killed on the 
way, and began to pluck its feathers. “Half 
the fun is in doing your own work. That’s 
the reason I never care to hunt with those fel- 
lows from the city. They must bring their 
cook with them and have all the things which 
they are accustomed to at home. If I am look- 
ing for my regular meals I stay at home and 
get them. This chicken would be a little bet- 
ter if we could hang it out for the night; but I 

83 


84 


In the Duck-Blind 


hope by that time to have a few ducks, so we’ll 
eat the bird now.” 

In the meanwhile Walter was collecting 
some dry wood. It was decided to cook out in 
the open as the weather was mild. 

“Must I get the frying pan?” asked the boy. 

“There you are,” mildly remonstrated the 
man. “Want things just as they are in the 
city. You aren’t in Chicago or at home. No, 
sir, Mr. Hunter, this chicken is to be broiled. 
We’ll take a forked stick, and each cook his 
half. Do you hear? If you don’t learn to 
cook on this expedition you won’t eat. No 
cook — no eat! We have the same laws here 
that Captain Smith had at Jamestown. Do 
you remember what the Captain did?” 

“He married an Indian to do his cooking.” 

“That’s one on me,” laughed the doctor. “I 
believe he did marry ; but he made a law that if 
any one of the party didn’t work he couldn’t 
eat. Now that’s the law of this party. If you 
can’t cook your part of this prairie-chicken you 
won’t have any meat for your — your — ^well 
— your afternoon lunch. It is too late to call 
this dinner and too early for supper. We’ll 
take a light supper after dark.” 

Following the direction of his teacher the 
boy had little difficulty in broiling the chicken 


In the Duck-Blind 


85 


over the burning coals. He acknowledged, 
too, that it had an inviting flavor which was 
wanting in meat cooked in an oven. 

Before they had finished with their refresh- 
ments it was well on in the afternoon, and a 
haze had begun to settle down on the river. 

“Just ideal weather for them,” said the doc- 
tor, “just ideal for a duck-hunt. Come, let us 
row across to our hiding-place among the cat- 
tails. ^ But I forgot something — and a very 
important thing, too. Would you care about 
taking a swim?” 

“Not this afternoon; but why do you ask 
me?” 

“To avoid giving you a swim against your 
will.” 

“How is that?” the boy wanted to know. 

“Very simple. Try to shoot ducks from 
that canoe and you are just as apt to tumble 
into the water as you are to hit your mark. If 
I were alone and it were summer-time I might 
take my chances ; but I don’t relish a dip this 
time of the year, especially when I have no 
change of clothes with me. We have got to 
get four stakes and put one each side of the 
boat.” 

“Why not use the oars?” asked the boy. 

“They may not be long enough, besides it 


86 


In the Dnek-Blind 


gets them so muddy and wet that it makes 
disagreeable rowing. 

“That is much better than an oar,” remarked 
the doctor as he reached out toward a sapling. 
“It is two feet longer and has more bend in it. 
If we break one, nothing is lost. Then,” he 
continued, taking something from his pocket, 
“I have these four snaphooks which fit into 
the oar-locks. They must be fastened to the 
poles and yet we must be able to release the 
canoe immediately after shooting, for fre- 
quently a wounded duck will get away if not 
followed at once.” 

“Can’t Bob get them?” 

“Yes, if the weeds are not too thick. It is 
easy for a dog to drown among the thick cat- 
tails. It is only by experience that one learns 
these things. That is the reason those city 
fellows are such poor hunters. They prac- 
tise with traps and become excellent shots, but 
when the real hunting begins they frighten the 
ducks, upset canoes, and frequently kill some 
one and even shoot themselves. I have seen 
enough of it. You couldn’t pay me to be here 
at the end of the month when the hunting sea- 
son is wide open. Besides, I can kill more 
ducks than six of these hunters. I am not 
boasting, young fellow, but telling you the 


In the Diick-Blind 


87 


simple truth. I am not a better shot than 
some of those city fellows; but I know all the 
tricks. Time and again I have brought down 
six or even eight ducks in six shots from my 
automatic. It is very seldom that a bunch of 
five hunters will get over five ducks.” 

“How do they miss them, if they know how 
to shoot?” asked the boy. 

“It does seem strange that they should do 
so.” 

“Have they got automatic guns?” 

“The finest made — just like yours and 
mine.” 

“I believe that I could kill at least one in 
five shots.” 

“Probably two, and if you hunt with me for 
a short time you will surprise yourself.” 

The canoe was now drawing near the blind. 
Into the hiding place it glided, where it was 
made fast with the four poles and snaphooks. 
Shells were pushed into the automatics, each 
hunter took his place, while Bob crouched in 
the bottom of the canoe. 

It was not necessary to keep a close lookout 
for the ducks, which invariably circled around 
several times before dropping into the water. 
These few minutes when the flock is settling 
give the hunter his most thrilling experience. 


88 


In the Duck-Blind 


Usually a flock will pass over the decoys as 
if unaware of their presence. An uninitiated 
hunter will invariably imagine that the ducks 
failed to see the decoys or have been frightened 
away. What signals nature has taught them 
to exchange no one knows; but suddenly they 
will reel in a solid phalanx and return in the 
direction of their mimic companions, passing 
lower and closer but going far beyond them. 
Again and again they come and go, each time 
drawing closer and flying lower. Then with a 
cry they dip into the water. They do not seem 
to be frightened by the decoys once they have 
lit in their midst; but will remain for hours 
swimming about in the quiet company of their 
lifeless associates. 

It was with a thrill of joy, then, that Dr. 
Murt observed a flock sailing high overhead 
and disappear in the distance. 

“See, see!” he whispered to the boy. 

“But they have gone,” was the faint reply. 

“ J ust watch and see — I think they are com- 
ing — ^yes, yes, there they are again. They will 
probably fly back over us again. They seldom 
light until they have made a close examination 
of the lake.” 

“Do you think they will suspect us?” asked 
Walter. 


In the Dnck-BUnd 


89 


“They are always on the alert; danger has 
taught them to be ever on the watch.” 

“Can they see us, Dr. Murt?” 

“I hope not, for if they do, it’s good-by 
ducks.” 

In the quiet that followed the beating of 
wings could be distinctly heard overhead. 

“A large flock,” said Dr. Murt in an under- 
tone, “a very large flock.” 

The whir of wings became still louder as the 
birds flew in a smaller circle and drew closer 
and closer. 

Dr. Murt moved slightly to get a better posi- 
tion and Walter felt his heart throbbing and 
beating. 

Suddenly there was a wild cry of alarm 
overhead. The entire flock screamed and beat 
the air with their speeding wings. Away and 
away they sailed, leaving the hunters gazing 
at them in bitter disappointment. 

Dr. Murt examined the covering of the 
blind. It seemed perfect. 

“You frightened them,” he said turning to 
Walter. “When did you take that coat off?” 

“Just a few minutes ago; it was so warm.” 

“Yes, and the ducks saw your white shirt. 
It is strange that I didn’t notice you. Well, 
you’ll know better next time. That’s a good 


90 


In the Duch-Blind 


joke on the city boy taking his first lesson in 
duck-hunting. Didn’t I tell you that those 
city people always made some mistake. In 
fact, one must be at this business regularly 
before he gets all the fine points. So, don’t 
worry ; it wasn’t your fault — but — 1-o-o-k,” he 
stammered, “bless my heart if they’re not com- 
ing back. Hurry and slip on that coat.” 

Sure enough, far in the distance the entire 
flock could be seen flying back toward the 
decoys. Time and again they came and went, 
drawing closer and closer with each circle. 

“We’ve got ’em,” whispered the doctor. 
“Now fire just as they are ready to dip. Wait 
until they are a foot from the water.” 

It seemed an hour while Walter held his gun 
in his trembling hands. 

They were circling right over the decoys. 
Then wings were beating the air and Walter’s 
heart was beating in unison. They were six 
feet above the water — then four, — then two. 

A fusillade went out from the two 
guns; and all was quiet only after the maga- 
zines were emptied. 

“We’ve got six or eight,” cried Dr. Murt. 
“You can claim half.” 

“I believe that my last shot did bring down 
one,” replied the excited boy. 


In the Duck-Blind 


91 


‘‘Yes, that was yours that fell over among 
the cattails. Unsnap your end of the boat, 
and let us pull out to keep the wounded ones 
from swimming away and hiding.” 

As soon as the canoe emerged from the 
weeds and other growth Bob leaped out into 
the water. He did not touch those lying dead 
but started at once to overtake the two 
wounded. It was no easy matter, for al- 
though their wings were broken they could 
swim and dive with speed. “I’ll end that old 
fellow,” said the doctor inserting a shell in 
his gun. As he fired one of the wounded 
ducks dropped over. By this time Bob had 
caught the other one and had broken its neck 
by a sudden jerk. Then the dog brought in 
the prizes one by one. 

“Just eight,” said the doctor, “and the one 
over in the cattails makes nine, and I believe 
that I saw another fall over there,” he con- 
tinued, pointing to a thick cluster of water 
growth. He was right, for two more were 
found, making a total of ten. 

“That will do for the night,” affirmed Dr. 
Murt. “It is not probable that another flock 
will come by, for it is getting too late. 
Besides, ten should be enough for one after- 
noon.” 


CHAPTER IX 


A CHANGE IN THE SPOKT 

“T HAVE an explanation about those ducks,” 
X said the doctor. “They didn’t see your 
white shirt. It was a family fight. Ducks 
and geese elect an officer when they start 
south. As geese haven’t any sense, they fol- 
low the leader if it is wrong. But when some 
smart ducks see that the leader is wrong they 
rebel — just simply refuse to go with the fellow 
that doesn’t know its business. So there was 
trouble up in that flock this afternoon. Some 
wanted to stop with our decoys and camp for 
the night; the leader insisted on going farther 
and camping farther south. It was just a 
matter of opinion. Many at first followed the 
leader; but after going some distance they 
changed their minds and returned to camp, and 
made the leader come with them, ha! ha! ha! 
Unfortunately we were there to greet them.” 

Dr. Murt was in a talkative mood. He and 
Walter had just finished supper and were sit- 
ting on the rustic benches in the lodge in front 

92 


93 


A Change in the Sport 

of a blazing fire, and as the doctor watched the 
smoke curl from his corncob pipe he unfolded 
his theory about leadership among ducks. 

“Well,” replied Walter, “the leader was 
right after all.” 

“Yes, it was right from the point of view of 
the ducks; but if it had had its way we’d be 
here complaining of bad luck.” 

“I am glad that there was a division of opin- 
ion in the family,” said the boy. 

“Yes, this theory of mine saves your reputa- 
tion as a hunter; if those ducks had not 
returned I would always have held you respon- 
sible for our failure.” 

“I hope the poor leader wasn’t killed,” 
affirmed the boy. 

“Why?” 

“Because he tried to do his duty and save his 
flock, that’s the reason. I wish him good 
luck.” 

“Well, boy, don’t get soft hearted over my 
speculations,” said Dr. Murt, blowing rings 
from his pipe. “I may be wrong. Ducks 
may be just as foolish as geese, and possibly 
more so. In fact, thinking it over, they are 
more foolish — absolutely more foolish. Why, 
you can decoy ducks any time. Just drop a 
piece of wood into the water and fasten some 


94 A Change in the Sport 

kind of head on to it and ducks will come up 
and make love to it. Did you ever see a flock 
of geese down in the midst of decoys? Never. 
If you want to kill a goose you must lie on 
your back all day in a corn-field ; or by chance 
you may stumble across them feeding, but 
there is no use going after them. One never 
knows where to find them. So thinking it over 
— quietly — solemnly — seriously — thinking it 
over, I retract what I said about the geese. 
Geese are smart, quick, and sensible. Ducks 
are stupid, slow, and — well, I can’t find another 
word ; but what I’ve said will express my opin- 
ion about ducks.” 

Dr. Murt was thoroughly enjoying this half 
soliloquy and half oration while the boy lis- 
tened and wondered whether the doctor was 
talking seriously. 

“I hear some noise outside,” remarked Wal- 
ter in the lull of conversation. 

“And you’ll be hearing ghosts all night — 
just like you fellows from the city! It’s only 
the wind — no ghost about it! In fact I 
noticed it coming up shortly after we reached 
camp. I’m afraid that we may not be able to 
go out on the river to-morrow. It is simply 
wonderful how rough the water can get some- 


95 


A Change in the Sport 

times. IVe seen it when the canoe couldn’t 
live five seconds. Luckily we got enough 
meat for a week.” 

“Hello! Is Dr. Murt here?” Unnoticed a 
man walked into the cabin. 

“Right here, sir,” and jumping to his feet 
the doctor grasped the hand of Hodge Billows, 
a ranchman who lived three miles away. I 
promised my wife to ’phone her to-morrow 
night from your house. Shake hands with my 
companion, Walter Blakestone.” 

“Glad to see you, boy! Glad to see you!” 

“I have come out again for a little sport 
before the army of hunters arrives, and have 
brought my young friend along. He’s from 
the city, so I have to teach him all the tricks of 
the hunter. Why, he nearly scared the whole 
flock away with his white shirt.” 

“You done right well; I see you got four 
ducks.” 

“Four! more than twice that number. 
Didn’t you see ten hanging on the line?” asked 
the doctor. 

“I seen four hanging against that pine-tree.” 

“You are losing your sight, Mr. Billows; 
you should have your eyes examined. Go out 
there again and look along the line and you’ll 


96 


A Change in the Sport 

see ten ducks. I want you to understand that 
when Dr. Murt shoots at a flock, more than 
four always fall.” 

“They may have fallen,” put in the visitor, 
“but they ain’t there now. I looked over the 
string.” 

“Somebody stole them,” affirmed Walter. 
“I heard some one, and you said it was the 
wind. Don’t you remember, doctor?” 

“Stole — ^who is here to steal? Those ducks 
were there ten minutes ago,” and the doctor 
walked out to make an investigation. “If I 
didn’t know you were an honest man, Mr. Bil- 
lows, I’d accuse you of the theft,” said he with 
a laugh. “But there is no doubt about it, the 
string is broken and only four ducks are left.” 

“I know who’s got ’em,” broke in the farmer. 
“As sure as shooting, I know! It’s a wolf. 
It’s been just playing the devil around here the 
last two weeks. It’s been stealing young pigs 
and lambs and geese and just everything. It 
comes right up to the house in the middle of the 
day. Some children seen it on their way from 
school.” 

“Why, Mr. Billows, the light of our fire 
would have frightened it. No wolf would 
come up here within ten feet of a fire.” 

“That depends,” explained the farmer. “If 


I 


97 


A Change in the Sport 

there are young wolves to be fed and food 
is scarce a wolf will walk into your kitchen 
while you are cooking. That was a wolf. It 
grabbed for the lowest duck on the string. 
The string broke and the wolf made away with 
six of the ducks. And come to think of it, I 
heard some rattling down there in them bushes 
as I come along.” 

At the suggestion of the farmer the party 
lighted a lantern and went out to search for 
traces of the missing game. 

“Right I am!” exclaimed the farmer before 
he had gone fifty feet. “Right I am! Here 
are five of the ducks. The string got caught 
in a root and was broken again, and the thief 
made away with only one duck.” 

Close by where the soil was sandy there were 
evident tracks of a wolf. “Yes, sir, I am 
right! And here the thief has left his mark. 
Say, that one duck won’t make a respectable 
supper for a wolf family. Just as sure as I’m 
Hodge Billows that wolf will come back again 
to-night.” 

“Well, if it does,” spoke up the doctor, “if 
it does, it will stay here, for I’m going to wait 
for it if I have to sit here gun in hand all 
night.” 

“Its head is worth thirty dollars,” explained 


98 A Change in the Sport 

the farmer, ‘‘and if it’s a coyote you get ten 
dollars.” 

“I think it’s a wolf,” explained the doctor, 
* who had examined the tracks more carefully. 
“But wolf or coyote, I’m going to wait for it.” 

“It’s been waiting for most eveiy thing in 
the neighborhood,” replied the farmer. “I’ve 
been kinder scared of my cattle. And speak- 
ing of cattle, do you know any folks who’d like 
to buy some good ones ? I had a chance to sell 
last month and am darned sorry I didn’t do so. 
My hay ain’t going to last — it just ain’t going 
to do it. I see it now — sorry I didn’t see it 
before.” 

“Why don’t you advertise?” 

“Well, sir, we folks has sold our cattle and 
things and there wasn’t no putting it in the 
papers ’fore hand. People is been coming 
’round and asking us to sell — always begging 
us and begging us.” 

“Yes, but it is rather late for the agents.” 

“I know it is, sir, but if you see any one or 
know any in town who wants some good cattle 
send ’em to see me, cause I just know that hay 
ain’t going to last — it ain’t going to last, no 
how.” 

“I shall try to remember it,” said the physi- 
cian. 


99 


A Change in the Sport 

On returning to the cabin, Hodge Billows 
left for home after wishing the hunters good 
luck. Walter did not relish the idea of sitting 
up all night waiting for a wolf. He closed the 
cabin door to keep Bob inside, rolled over on 
his hard cot and was soon fast asleep. 

The doctor, who had brought along several 
charges of small buckshot for jack-rabbits, 
inserted them in his gun and went out to begin 
his watch. He had brought all the ducks to 
the cabin with the exception of one. This one 
he attached to the end of a string and took a 
position with the wind blowing from the path, 
along which the ducks had been dragged. In 
the darkness he could not see the thief if it 
approached but he held the string in his hand, 
and was ready to shoot if he felt a tug at the 
bait. 

True, it was only a chance, but the doctor 
enjoyed taking the chance. He enjoyed sit- 
ting there in the darkness with the music of the 
wind overhead and the breaking of waves on 
the shore. 

Suddenly without any warning there was a 
violent pull at the string. Instantly the auto- 
matic rang out with two shots. Before he 
realized what had happened a howling and 
wounded wolf leaped through the darkness 


100 


A Change in the Sport 

within a few feet of the hunter. Two more 
shots were fired, and the bleeding, snarling 
wolf lay before him. Dr. JVIurt dragged his 
prize back to the cabin. 

On the following morning Walter was the 
first to awake. What was his surprise on 
opening the door of the cabin to see an enor- 
mous wolf hanging against a tree. 

“Well, I got him,” said the doctor, who had 
awakened and followed the boy out of the hut. 

“A big one!” ejaculated the boy. 

“It looks big hanging in that position,” ex- 
plained the doctor with satisfaction. “Still, 
it is not a small wolf. Several times I thought 
of giving up. I didn’t think the thief would 
come back, and even if it did return I had only 
a chance in firing blindly in the dark, but I got 
it.” 

“I am sorry that I didn’t sit up with you,” 
replied the boy. 

“You would have got the scare of your life, 
for when I fired the beast leaped almost to me. 
I believe that it made a spring at the duck from 
the other side. That is the way a wolf hunts. 
It creeps up on its victim and then makes a 
leap at it. I fired — fired without taking aim, 
guessed right, and happened to hit it. The 
beast kept on coming and fell right at my feet. 


t 


i <. 

< f < 


101 


A Change in the Sport 

What would you have done if a maddened wolf 
dropped right before you? Possibly you 
might have been in my way.” 

“Well, I have seen a real wild wolf,” said 
the boy as he examined the carcass. 

“And I have had some real sport, and have 
made thirty dollars,” put in the doctor. “I get 
thirty dollars from the State for the head, and 
can sell the skin.” 

Dr. Murt’s predictions about the rough 
water came true. It was impossible to set the 
decoys that day. 

As the doctor was tired after his long vigil 
he lay down to take a rest after breakfast. 
Walter went out over the hills to try his luck 
with prairie-chickens or a jack-rabbit. Al- 
though he kicked up several of the latter he 
killed but one. He was well pleased, however, 
when he returned at noon and laid the prize at 
the feet of the doctor. 

That afternoon they put the decoys out in a 
little slough which was protected from the 
wind. Only a small duck — a teal — came 
along, and was brought down by the doc- 
tor. 

After supper the physician drove in his ma- 
chine to the ranch to tell his wife of his success. 
He got from her the message that Isidore 


102 A Change in the Sport 

Dobbs was sick but the case was not danger- 
ous or urgent. 

He learned from Hodge Billows, too, that a 
large flock of geese had been feeding in a corn- 
field that afternoon, whereupon he resolved to 
try his luck with them on the following day. 


CHAPTER X 


THE MESSENGEKS FROM THE NORTH 

1 THINK we can be satisfied so far,” 
remarked Dr. Murt as he and Walter 
were driving back to camp that night from 
Hodge Billows’s ranch. “We have killed 
eleven ducks, a wolf, a chicken, a jack-rabbit, 
and now we must go after the geese. We’ll 
have to be in the field early, for the birds begin 
to feed at daybreak.” 

“Are the geese hard to hit?” Walter wanted 
to know. 

“Hard to hit, and harder to kill.” 

“Must I shoot in front of them?” 

“If they are flying fast, yes, but if you get a 
shot when they are rising shoot right at them.” 
“Will we use decoys?” 

“No, we’ll simply hide in the corn-shocks 
and wait. If they light near us we are pretty 
sure to get one or two. If they drop down 
into the field some distance from our hiding- 
place it’s all luck in getting a shot. Some- 
times one can slip up on them, and again they 

103 


\ 


104 The Messengers from the North 

seem to have the whole field so guarded that 
it’s impossible to get close.” 

“What do you mean by having the field 
guarded?” 

“I mean that they have out sentinels or 
watchers. You will notice in every colony of 
prairie-dogs that one or two are always on the 
lookout. You can not get near them without 
being seen. The only difficulty with the 
prairie-dog is that it is too curious. When 
the danger signal is given the little fellows 
dive into their burrows and for a few minutes 
not a dog can be seen. But just stand still 
and you will see little heads peeping out of the 
holes, and soon the whole colony is in plain 
view. With geese it is different. When an 
alarm is given they are up at once, and fly 
away, never to return.” 

They soon reached the camp and retired 
immediately. In fact Walter, so he thought, 
had scarcely said a little prayer and closed his 
eyes when he felt something pulling at his toes. 

“What’s the matter?” he grunted. 

“Nothing, but it’s three o’clock and we must 
be out.” 

“Gee, have I been sleeping all night?” 

“I suppose so; I know I slept until that 
alarm clock rang.” 


The Messengers from the North 105 

“And what time is it?” 

“Three o’clock, but by the time we get 
breakfast and reach the corn-field it will be 
near daylight.” 

Walter was soon collecting some wood, while 
the doctor cooked, and completed the prepa- 
rations for the day’s sport, while Bob, feel- 
ing that something unusual was in the air, 
ran about, wagging his tail in anticipation. 
Breakfast over, they were soon in the machine, 
and before the first traces of day were visible, 
the two hunters and their dog were standing at 
the edge of the corn-field, looking over the 
place as best they could in the dim light. 

“I think it is best for us to take positions far 
apart,” explained the doctor, “for in that case 
we are more apt to get a shot. You walk over 
there and crawl in under a corn-shock. Keep 
well hid and listen — just listen. If any geese 
are near you will hear the ‘Honk! Honk! 
Honk!’ Like ducks they will circle around 
for a while before settling. If they drop 
near you let them begin to feed, and if they 
are close enough for a shot jump away from 
the hiding-place and rush at them. Don’t 
shoot from the covering; you’ll be too cramped 
to get a good shot. Sometimes when you rush 
right at them they get so confused that some 


106 The Messengers from the North 

of the flock will fly right over you, and you can 
empty your magazine.” 

After listening to the instruction Walter 
climbed the fence and picked his way toward 
the corn-field, while Dr. Murt, followed by 
Bob, started off for a position half a mile away. 

“Good luck,” said the doctor. 

“The same to you,” came back the faint 
reply. 

Only an experienced eye could have dis- 
cerned the traces of awakening day. Beach- 
ing his natural blind of corn-stalks, Walter 
wrapped his heavy coat closely around him, 
slipped on his warm mittens, which Mrs. Murt 
had presented to him, and began his vigil. 

As daylight gradually came he distinctly 
heard the call of geese overhead. Then he fell 
asleep and dreamed that thousands of the pas- 
senger birds had dropped down into the field 
around him. When he awoke all was bright 
and Dr. Murt was whispering into his ear: 
“It’s dinner-time! You’ve missed the chance 
of your hfe.” 

“Missed what?” asked the boy, slowly real- 
izing where he was. 

“The chance of your life. You could have 
killed a hundred.” 

“Geese?” 


The Messengers from the North 107 

‘‘Yes, geese! You could actually have 
killed one with a club.” 

“Was it already wounded?” 

“No; but it was feeding within a few feet of 
you.” 

“How do you know, doctor?” 

“I have been watching them for an hour or 
more. I couldn’t make out where you were 
hid; so I did not dare to fire myself, for fear of 
hitting you. When the flock got up I walked 
over here and to my surprise found you sleep- 
ing just where the birds had been feeding. 
But it is all in the sport, my boy, all in the 
sport,” laughed the doctor. “We may get 
them yet,” he added. 

“Did they see me?” asked Walter. 

“It is just possible that one old fellow put 
his head under the corn, and seeing you gave 
the alarm.” 

“How long have I been sleeping?” asked the 
boy, as he stretched his cramped limbs. 

“About six hours; you see you were tired 
from yesterday, and didn’t get much rest last 
night.” 

“And then this big coat was so nice 
and warm, and these mittens were so fine I 
dropped right off to sleep at once,” assented 
the lad. 


108 The Messengers from the North 

“Well, it isn’t too late yet,” continued the 
doctor. “It’s the biggest flock I ever saw. 
At least it looked that way from a distance. 
Since there are so many it shows that the geese 
have not been shot at often; probably not at 
all. They are not easily frightened and will 
not fly far. They seemed to me, when they 
left this place, to drop down again less than 
half a mile away. But let us take a bite to 
eat.” 

While they enjoyed the short repast the doc- 
tor explained his next move. He would go 
around in a big circle and get on the other side 
of the geese, and would then endeavor to slip 
up within range. If he flushed them without 
getting a shot he might at least drive them 
toward Walter. 

“Must I wait for them to settle if I see them 
coming?” asked the boy. 

“Wait for nothing — bang right at them, and 
bang as long as you have a shell in the maga- 
zine.” 

“It’s too bad that I went to sleep when I 
had a chance,” said Walter. 

“No, not at all — it only showed that you 
needed a sleep more than you needed the geese. 
It is all in the sport. No one can plan and 
have things go on just as he wishes. That is 


The Messengers from the North 109 

half the fun in hunting. You make all your 
plans and then something happens. Yes, 
something happ-e-n-s — The doctor 
paused. “Bless — my — heart — and — soul,” he 
muttered, “they are coming — back! Yes — 
sir! Crawl under that corn ! Here, Bob!” 

It seemed but a minute before the “honk- 
honk” was plainly heard. 

“Jump when I do! Set your magazine to 
empty itself. Ready now, ready,” directed 
the doctor. 

The flock was not twenty feet from the 
ground and was bearing down upon the hunt- 
ers. It was a chance that one might wait for, 
and not get in years of sport. Never before 
had Dr. Murt seen so many geese so near over- 
head. 

When he threw the corn-stalks aside and 
leaped into the open a great cry of consterna- 
tion went up from the aerial army. With 
beating wings the geese swerved upward 
instead of turning to one side and in so doing 
they made a perfect target, as for a few sec- 
onds they poised in midair. 

A volley rang out, and four geese dropped 
to the ground. 

“Two more are wounded,” cried the doctor. 
“Come on. Bob,” and he started on a run, in 


110 The Messengers from the North 

■" I 

the meantime shoving more shells into his auto- 
matic. “Go back and wait,” he called out to 
Walter, who had started off with him. 
“Watch the ones that have fallen.” 

Walter ran up to one which, though 
wounded in the wing, was running off to hide. 
As he seized the creature, with strong flaps of 
its wings it beat the boy’s hands and arms until 
he was forced to release his hold, but it soon fell 
over, exhausted by the loss of blood. 

Turning, Walter could see the doctor run- 
ning on with Bob, while far overhead a single 
goose which was lagging behind the flock was 
gradually coming down. A shot from the 
man brought it to the ground. 

“Ha-ha! Five geese! Well, boy, you 
might wait in this field for ten years and never 
get another chance like that!” 

“I wonder whether I killed one?” asked the 
boy. 

“Yes,” replied the doctor, “you killed two.” 

“How do you know?” 

“Well, our shot was reall}^ not large enough 
and I fired three times at the first goose I 
killed, and three at the second. You must 
have killed the other two, unless a stray shot 
from my gun got one of them. I don’t know 
who wounded this last one,” and the doctor 


The Messengers from the North 111 

held it up for inspection. “I didn’t take any 
risk,” he explained. “I might have gotten 
more by firing at six different birds, but I 
wanted to be sure. I held my aim on one until 
I saw it falling, and then turned to the second.” 

“I don’t know what I did,” said the boy. 
‘‘It was all over before I knew what had hap- 
pened.” 

“Well, it was worth ten days’ sport and ten 
days’ waiting,” put in the doctor. 

With their trophies the two hunters were 
soon on their way back to camp. Stopping 
at the ranch of Hodge Billows, Dr. Murt pre- 
sented the happy farmer with one of his prizes. 
He also learned by telephoning his wife that 
old Dobbs had asked for him several times. 
Still, there did not seem to be any urgent 
call. 

The following three days at the camp were 
most enjoyable. Flocks of ducks settled 
around the blind, and always left one or more 
of their number behind them when they flew 
away. Although the hunters ate duck three 
times a day and gave half a dozen to Mr. Bil- 
lows they had twenty-four hanging out in the 
cold when the State game warden came by on 
a tour of inspection. No hunter was allowed 
to have more than twelve ducks in his posses- 


112 The Messengers from the North 

sion at a time. Dr. Murt was careful to give 
away or use all above this number. 

Several blinds were being built along the 
river by prospective hunters. As the doctor 
knew that this was the signal for scores of inex- 
perienced men to gather in from Omaha and 
the neighboring towns, and as he did not enjoy 
hunting under these conditions, he decided to 
break camp. 

Those had been five glorious days, and for 
weeks and months Dr. Murt and his boy com- 
panion talked of the hunting-camp along the 
banks of the Loup River. 


CHAPTER XI 

THE INGRAM REAL ESTATE CO. 

‘"T3^tty early, sir,” said the office-boy, ‘‘de 

jL boss won’t be in ’fore eight-thirty. But 
dis feller has to be down here at seven; gits up 
at six, hits a cold breakfast, ’cept coffee, and 
hikes down here on foot to save carfare.” 

As he talked the boy tossed the chairs 
around, while with a slip and a hit he dusted 
the desks and other pieces of furniture. 

The visitor paid no attention either to the 
remarks or the actions of the boy, but seating 
himself at the end of the office looked out over 
the awakening life of the city. 

Soon a second man entered the waiting-room 
of the real estate company. 

“Jiminy crickets,” mused the office-boy, 
‘‘de boss is going to do a rushing business to- 
day — two guys here long ’fore business hours.” 

Presently the stenographer entered and 
began to clean the desk which the boy had just 
dusted. 

Promptly at eight-thirty Theodore Ingram 

113 


114 The Ingram Real Estate Co, 

walked across the waiting-room, bowed to the 
two men and passed into his private office. It 
was only a few minutes before the stenogra- 
pher appeared and asked which of the two gen- 
tlemen was first. 

“I can wait,” said the one who had come first. 

“No, you have the right,” replied number 
two. 

“You are near the door, go right on in. I 
can wait,” asserted number one. 

With a word of thanks the second man 
walked into the private office, 

“Take a seat, sir, my name is Ingram.” He 
was a man of about fifty with a short, reddish 
mustache. He had a gracious manner that 
inspired confidence. “What is your name?” 

“Rudolph Seyon. I am a Belgian.” 

“From the State?” 

“Yes, sir, from Sandpit.” 

“Glad to hear it,” was the reply. “I have 
done considerable business with your people in 
Sandpit. I am sure that I can give you some 
splendid references. That land association is 
a most commendable organization. It has 
enabled many of your deserving people to get 
a start in life — and a start with a home and a 
farm is a real start — a real start! What is 
your business, Mr. — ” 


115 


The Ingram Real Estate Co, 

‘‘Seyon.” 

“Yes, yes, let me write it down. Those 
names are not so easy to remember; but now I 
have it — Seyon! Seyon! and now your busi- 
ness.” 

“I bring a letter from the Belgian Society.” 

“As good as a draft on an}^ bank in Ne- 
braska. Security is of course the principal 
thing in our business. We must have good 
security. You have brought us the best there 
is, so it should be easy for us to make a deal. 
What property are you looking for?” 

After an apology that he had been in the 
country but two years and knew but little 
English, Rudolph Seyon explained the object 
of his visit. Only a few days before he and his 
wife had been asked to take care of the house 
and farm of a certain Isidore Dobbs. The lat- 
ter had been very frank with him in confessing 
that his whole farm was mortgaged and that 
he had little hope of saving it. Both Rudolph 
and his wife had become deeply interested 
in the farmer’s little child, Rollin. Thev 
couldn’t see little Rollin turned out into the 
world. It had been their intention to buy a 
farm later ; but now they had decided to buy at 
once. They intended to keep Mr. Dobbs and 
the boy with them. The president of the Bel- 


116 


The Ingrain Beal Estate Co, 

gian Association had agreed to advance the 
money and he, Rudolph Seyon, had come to 
close the deal. 

After listening to the account Mr. Ingram 
pressed a bell. 

‘'Bring me the file of the Dobbs estate,’’ said 
he to the stenographer. 

“Now, Mr. Seyon,” began the real estate 
agent, when he had the papers, “yc>u will see 
from this that farmer Dobbs had borrowed 
eleven thousand five hundred dollars. We 
refused to advance him another cent. In fact, 
we demanded settlement. The farm may be 
worth fifteen thousand, but — ” 

“It is worth twenty thousand,” interrupted 
the visitor. 

“You should not tell me,” laughed the real 
estate agent. “What makes you think it is 
worth so much?” 

The Belgian was frank in his statement. 
He had gone over the ground several times. 
He had learned from farmer Dobbs just how 
much corn and hay had been raised. Most of 
the land lay in a little branch of the Loup 
River. The hills made fine pasture land. It 
was worth twenty thousand — every cent of 
twenty thousand. 

Again the agent smiled at the truthfulness 


The Ingram Real Estate Co. 117 

and simplicity of the visitor. But he was too 
noble and generous a man to take advantage 
of knowledge gained in this way. 

The matter was gone over in detail. Ru- 
dolph Seyon put down his check for eleven 
thousand, five hundred dollars, received the 
mortgages, took his hat and departed. Pass- 
ing out through the waiting-room he shook 
hands with the man who had so kindly allowed 
him to go into the office first. 

Then visitor number one was ushered into 
the private office. 

“Good-morning, sir,” said the agent, with 
his beneficent smile. “My name is Theodore 
Ingram. And what is yours?” 

“Ignatius, sir. Ignatius Bararana.” 

“You Indians have poetic names; but I sup- 
pose the Government school tagged the Igna- 
tius on to you.” 

“No, sir, I got it from my grandfather. 
Father De Smet, the missionary, baptized my 
grandfather and gave him that name. My 
father had the name and so have I.” 

“Well, so much for the name,” answered the 
man, leaning back in his easy chair, “and now 
for our business.” 

In simple words the Indian told his story. 
He had inherited a large tract of land in the 


118 The Ingram Real Estate Co. 

Blackfeet Reservation, Montana. He had 
come on to Nebraska to study agriculture in 
the Government school and then had hired 
himself out as a farm-hand to get further ex- 
perience. For reasons which he did not wish 
to discuss he had decided not to return to Mon- 
tana, at least for the present. Being anxious 
to buy a certain farm, he had negotiated a loan 
and had with him a check of eleven thousand, 
five hundred dollars. He laid the piece of 
paper on the table. 

The agent looked over the check from the 
Omaha State Bank. “It’s as good as gold,” 
said he, “for anything I may have to sell.” 

“You have notes against the Dobbs 
farm?” 

“I had — ” stammered the agent. 

“You had — and they are gone!” interrupted 
the Indian. 

“Yes, I had—” 

“My God, I am late!” exclaimed Ignatius, 
“and little Roily is without a home.” 

The agent looked out of the window and 
nervously drummed the table with his fountain 
pen. “Did you see that man who went out 
before you came in?” 

“Yes, sir!” 

“Well — well — it’s certainly hard luck for 


The Ingram Real Estate Co, 119 

you! Hard luck! But he has the mort- 
gages!” 

The Indian rose slowly from the office chair, 
shook the hand of the agent, then retired with- 
out uttering a word. 

Reaching the street, Ignatius took out his 
watch. He had ten minutes to catch the local 
train to Sandpit. He hailed a taxi and in 
seven minutes was standing before the ticket 
office in the Union Pacific Station. Entering 
a coach he walked slowly along the aisle to 
see whether he could recognize the man who 
had bought the mortgages. “Yes, there he 
was!” Evidently he did not notice the In- 
dian, who had purposely drawn his slouch hat 
down over his face. 

At Sandpit Mr. Seyon was met by his wife, 
who had come in the farmer’s buggy. She had 
been told of the object of his visit to Omaha, 
but it was kept a secret from Mr. Dobbs. 

That night after supper Rudolph Seyon 
took from his pocket a large envelope, opened 
it and laid some papers before Isidore Dobbs. 
“The farm is safe,” said he. “I own the mort- 
gages, and they will never be sold. If at any 
time you get the money you can pay me and 
keep the farm; or if you prefer I’ll pay you 
the balance and the farm is mine.” 


120 The Ingram Real Estate Co, 

The farmer looked over the papers in 
silence; then he grasped the hand of the man 
who had come to work for him. “Roily and 
myself will have a home for the winter,” he 
muttered, “and we owe it to you, to you — to 
you.” Then he paused: “If only Ig had a 
home!” 

“Poor Ig! I wish we had Ig!” whimpered 
Rollin as thoughts of the Indian came back to 
him. 

“Yes, I turned him out with no warning and 
no place to go,” continued the heart-stricken 
man, “and he worked hard!” 

“And played with me, and was good, 
daddy!” put in Rollin. 

“Yes, he was good. If I only knew where 
to find him. Perhaps he is back in Montana. 
I’ll try to find him. I must try to find him!” 
and the farmer’s head sank down upon the 
table. 


CHAPTER XII 


PLANNING FOR THE FUTURE 

‘‘T Tow is Rollin this morning?” asked Dr. 

A. X Murt, as he and Walter leaped out of 
the machine. 

“Here are two fine ducks and a goose for 
you,” and Walter held up the prizes. 

It was the morning after the hunting expe- 
dition and after the transaction at the Ingram 
real estate office. Dr. Murt had a double pur- 
pose in coming to the house of farmer Dobbs. 
He wished to see whether the farmer was seri- 
ously sick, and at the same time he brought a 
message from Ignatius Bararana. 

Little Rollin had seen the automobile from 
the window and had slipped out to welcome his 
friends. The doctor observed that the exer- 
tion of running across the yard was plainly 
visible in the forced breathing of the boy; but 
he ignored the matter and asked: “How is 
your father, Rollin?” 

“He’s sitting in the house all the time — but 

gee, what fine ducks and what a big — big 

121 


122 


Planning for the Future 

goose The little fellow could not carry the 
goose, but let it drag on the ground. 

‘T have ’phoned for you several times,” mut- 
tered the farmer, as Dr. Murt went into the 
room. ‘T wasn’t exactly sick, but I wanted 
to see you. I am better this morning for I 
know that the farm is safe, at least for the 
winter. I can never thank you enough for 
bringing Mr. Seyon and his good wife here.” 

The farmer explained what Rudolph Seyon 
had done on the previous day and how his ac- 
tion had safeguarded the farm. 

“And now,” he continued, “if I could only 
find Ig. I sent the Indian away some days 
ago. Sent him away without a home and 
without warning.” 

“Do you wish to see him?” asked the doctor. 

“See him, yes. I’d do anything for him.” 

“I have a message from him,” interposed the 
doctor. 

“You have — you have?” 

“Be quiet, Mr. Dobbs, you are not well. Be 
quiet and I will tell you. Yes, I have a mes- 
sage from him.” 

' “Where is he?” gasped the farmer. 

“Be quiet,” advised the doctor, “be quiet. 
I will tell you all.” 


123 


Planning for the Future 

“Thanks, thanks.” 

“To begin with, Ignatius Bararana was in 
Sandpit last night.” 

“So near,” groaned the man. 

“Yes, and sent a message to you,” said the 
doctor. “But in the first place I wish to tell 
you that Ignatius Bararana is not a poor In- 
dian. He is worth thousands of dollars from 
land which his tribe owns in Montana. He 
was working for you simply to get experience. 
He was anxious to stay for Rollin’s sake. 
Don’t interrupt me — let me tell you all!” 
And the farmer sank back in his chair, from 
which he had arisen in his excitement. “Yes, 
let me tell you all!” And Dr. Murt explained 
how Ignatius had tried to buy the mortgages 
for little Rollin’s sake, and that he himself had 
assured the Indian that Mr. Seyon would look 
after the interests of the lad. Ignatius had 
therefore decided to start at once for Montana. 

“Good Indian! Good Indian!” muttered 
the farmer. 

“Yes, he is a good Indian, Mr. Dobbs, one 
of the noblest men I ever saw.” 

“And to think that I treated him like a dog,” 
muttered the man. 

“His action may have been suspicious,” con- 


124 


Planning for the Future 

tinued the doctor. “And now I have more to 
tell you. Do you remember another Indian 
called Injun Joe?’’ 

“Yes, yes. I sent Ig away for letting In- 
jun Joe come around.” 

“And did you ever hear of a white man 
called Sam Diggs?” 

“I can’t — can’t recall the name.” 

“Well, he lives in Sandpit. He should have 
been hung long ago. He and Injun Joe have 
lived by stealing. It’s hard to catch them, but 
everybody knows that they steal. I am going 
to see them when I go back to Sandpit. In- 
jun Joe has got to leave the community, and 
I’ll have Diggs behind the bars if he doesn’t 
reform. And now about Injun Joe. He did 
come to your farm. He did speak with Igna- 
tius. Do you know what he came for?” 

“Some scheme with Ig,” suggested the sick 
man. 

“No, it was some scheme with Sam Diggs, 
Mr. Dobbs. They both thought that you had 
your house full of gold, and they wanted to 
rob you. Moreover, they wanted Ignatius to 
join in with them.” 

“They — they did — they did!” stammered 
the farmer. 

“Yes, they wanted to rob you,” but the doc- 


125 * 


Planning for the Future 

tor did not let the sick man know that the two 
villains also wanted to murder him, and that 
Ignatius spurned their offers of money and 
had defied them. “Injun Joe came not once, 
but several times. Finally Ignatius threat- 
ened to have him arrested if he approached 
your farmhouse again.” 

“Then Ig was protecting me when I thought 
that he was plotting against me,” muttered the 
man. 

“Precisely, Mr. Dobbs; he was your best 
friend.” 

“Why didn’t he say something about this 
matter?” the farmer asked. 

“Remember he is an Indian, and Indians do 
not think as we do. Remember, too, that In- 
jun Joe was one of his tribe. Ignatius was 
faithful to his tribesman, even if he didn’t de- 
serve it. But he was also true to you.” 

For some time they sat in silence. “Igna- 
tius is gone,” resumed the doctor, “and I want 
to assure you that Injun Joe will also go. I’ll 
take care of Diggs, too, so that there will be 
no further danger. You have a good man to 
look after the farm during winter and all trou- 
bles are at an end.” 

“No,” put in the farmer, “there is another 
trouble. These Seyons insist on having the 


126 


Planning for the Future 

team to drive to church on Sunday. I don’t 
believe in all this church business.” 

“Perhaps you don’t,” interrupted Dr. Murt, 
“perhaps you don’t; but others do. I want to 
call your attention to the fact that the man 
who has helped you believes in church-going 
and the Indian who protected you believed in 
church-going. I have noticed that none of 
those who stay away from church have been 
here to help you.” 

“No! No!” assented the farmer. 

“And if the Belgian works for you six days 
in the week, don’t you think that he deserves 
a rest on Sunday?” 

“Yes, let him rest, that’s what Sunday is for. 
And let the horses rest.” 

“No, Sunday is for rest and prayer; and a 
trip into town will not hurt the horses.” 

“It may not during the winter,” replied the 
farmer, “but during plowing-season horses 
need a day’s rest every week.” 

“Yes, horses need care,” argued the doctor, 
“and so does the soul of man. I tell you right 
now, Mr. Dobbs, those Belgians think more of 
their religion than they do of this farm; and 
when it comes right down to business they’ll 
go to church. They’ll go every Sunday. You 
may as well give in on this point.” 


127 


Planning for the Future 

“But I don’t believe in it.” 

“Rudolph Seyon doesn’t ask you to go with 
him to church. If he tried to force you to go, 
it would be a different matter. He lets you 
have your way, and you sit here in the house 
on Sunday; let him and his wife have their way 
and go to church.” 

But Dr. Murt did not stop here. Seated on 
the edge of his chair with his finger pointing 
right into the face of the unbeliever he spoke 
of God and one’s duty to God. He used illus- 
trations familiar to the man whom he was try- 
ing to enlighten. He did not convert Isidore 
Dobbs, nor did he expect to do so, but late that 
afternoon when the fost snowfall filtered 
down from the sky Isidore Dohbs stood at the 
window, thinking of the power of the Creator, 
thinking of the unseen hand that mantled the 
earth in white. When he saw the ashen-gray 
clouds over beyond the hills and the faintest 
trace of purple in the west, there rushed upon 
him the thought of the Maker and Master of 
nature. The lesson of Dr. Murt had found at 
least a heart not entirely hardened — a mind not 
entirely darkened to all truth. 

That night after supper and when all were 
still sitting at the table Isidore turned to Mr. 
Seyon and said: “You may have the horses 


128 Planning for the Future 

on Sunday. You and your wife go to church; 
but there is to be no religion talked in this 
house. I think it well for us to have this mat- 
ter well understood. It may prevent trouble 
in the future. 

Mrs. Seyon bowed her head in approval 
while the husband replied: “We only asked 
for the horses.” 

“It is understood that you are to have the 
team; but we are not to talk religion here.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Seyon. 

“Well,” said the wife. 

“I was talking to Rollin about God to-day,” 
blurted out Walter. “He didn’t know who 
made the flowers grow and I just told him.” 

“And you said God made the sun come up 
every morning,” prated Rollin. 

“You boys can talk all the foolishness you 
wish,” replied the farmer, not a little provoked 
by the remarks of the two lads. “But I want 
to congratulate the cook. This duck is cer- 
tainly fine,” said he, changing the subject of 
conversation. 

“And we ought to thank the young hunter 
who brought it for us,” said Mrs. Seyon. 

“Don’t mind that,” replied Walter, “it was 
lots of fun hunting them and more fun eating 
them.” . 


129 


Planning for the Future 

‘‘And we are going to have lots of fun play- 
ing ‘thrashing’ and catching muskrats,” put in 
Rollin. 

“I will get the steel traps to-morrow,” prom- 
ised Mr. Seyon. 

The boys looked forward with keen delight 
to the experience of trapping muskrats and 
selling their skins. They even planned how 
to spend the income which they were sure to 
have from the sale. Walter had promised to 
remain a week or more with little Rollin and 
most of the time would be spent near the musk- 
rat colony. 


CHAPTER XIII 

SAM DIGGS 

I NJUN Joe was a half-breed known for 
his cunning and meanness. The ques- 
tion had come up several times of driving him 
from the town; for although the proofs were 
missing all considered him guilty of more than 
one theft. 

His associate was equally notorious, a cer- 
tain Sam Diggs — a white man who worked 
during the busy seasons for the farmers of the 
neighborhood, but who spent most of his time 
loafing around the local depot. 

Almost at any time of the day, or for that 
matter of the night, the white man and the 
Indian could be seen sitting on the platform 
with their legs dangling down upon the track. 
The Indian never wore a hat except during the 
extreme cold of winter. His long black hair 
fell down upon his shoulders. His red flannel 
shirt gave him an appearance of wildness. He 
was a powerful man, but stooped and pre- 

130 


131 


Sam Diggs 

maturely aged. His companion was short, 
lean, and sallow. He always had a quid of 
tobacco in the left side of his mouth. During 
the summer months he sat and swatted flies, 
while the rest of the year he whittled away at 
sticks. 

“Just the two men I am looking for,” said 
Dr. Frederic Murt as he walked up to the 
railroad station the morning after his visit to 
the Dobbs farmhouse. “Joe! Sam! I want 
a few words with you. Will you walk into the 
waiting-room?” 

The two men followed the doctor into the 
room without a word of reply. Dr. Murt was 
well aware that he was assuming a dangerous 
task and that he was dealing with men who 
would stop at nothing for gain or revenge. 
Yet he was determined to push his plans and 
carry his point. 

“You men know Ignatius Bararana,” he 
began, as all three seated themselves in one 
corner of the waiting-room. 

Both bowed assent. 

“Well, he left town last night, but before 
he went he made a statement in writing that 
you two not only sought to rob Mr. Dobbs but 
that you planned to murder him. I have the 
statement and it is sworn to before the notary.” 


132 


Sam Diggs 

Neither one answered the charge. The In- 
dian looked down at the floor and Diggs, shift- 
ing his quid of tobacco, stared out of the win- 
dow. 

Dr. Murt was determined not to be the first 
to break the prolonged silence which followed 
his accusation, for he felt that this was his 
chance to study the men and if possible to read 
their guilt in their actions. He stared at one, 
then the other, but neither flinched before his 
gaze. The Indian’s face was a blank; Diggs 
wore a look of utter indifference. 

Gradually the lips of the white man began to 
twitch, and his hand played nervously upon the 
window-sill. “Is that all?” he asked. 

“No, it is not all; it is only the beginning.” 

“The Indian’s a liar,” protested Sam. 

“He is as truthful a man as ever walked the 
streets of this town,” affirmed the doctor. 

“Why didn’t he stay here and face me with 
his charges?” 

“I’ll do that and if necessary he’ll come back 
here and face you.” 

“Let him do it!” were the daring words. 

“He doesn’t need to do it; Injun Joe here 
was witness to it all.” 

“What business is it of yours?” asked Diggs. 

“I am making it my business for the pres- 


133 


Sam Diggs 

ent,” asserted Dr. Murt. “But first I am go- 
ing to give you both a chance. Joe,” he said, 
turning to the Indian, “you have got to leave 
this town to-day. I’ll give you a ticket to 
Omaha, and I am going to stay right here with 
you until the train leaves. If you refuse to 
go I’ll get a warrant for your arrest at once. 
I promised Ignatius to give you this chance 
and I’U do it. Will you go?” 

“Ig gone, me no have friends, me’ll go.” 

“And remember that you are never to re- 
turn to Sandpit.” 

“Me no come back,” 

“Then your case is settled, and now for you,” 
he continued, turning to Diggs again. “I 
have got proof enough to send you to the peni- 
tentiary, but I want to give you a chance.” 

“Look here. Doc, you ain’t dealin’ with no 
Injun, you is dealin’ with a white man, an’ one 
you can’t scare. Do you hear?” 

“I know the man I am dealing with; but I 
have started this business and I am going to see 
it through,” rejoined the doctor not in the least 
perturbed by the boldness of Sam Diggs. 

“How’ll you see it through?” 

“By putting you behind the bars.” 

“How’ll you do it? Just tell how you’ll 
do it.” 


134 


Sam Diggs 

“On the evidence IVe got of intended mur- 
der and robbery.” 

“You ain’t got no ev’dence; you ain’t got 
nothin’ on me. You is smart, and you don’t 
know that Injun ain’t a citizen and can’t tes- 
tify ’gin a white man.” 

“Ignatius Bararana is a citizen; he’s got 
property and can testify.” 

“Go on wid you, he can’t!” 

“That’ll be seen.” 

“Doc, you’ve called me lazy and good for 
nothin’! But I ain’t lazy! I can git you all 
kinds of farmers to show you I’ve worked — 
worked hard — worked harder than any doctor. 
What do you do? You is got time for huntin’ 
and ridin’ round in your machine. Can’t I 
take a little rest now and then, when there’s 
no work? Can’t I? Answer me that. Can’t 
I? Am I lazy?” 

“You have the name of being a loafer — 
and many people in Sandpit think you are a 
thief.” 

“That’s the way people talk about a poor 
man. Why don’t they tend to their own busi- 
ness? I’ll bet you they’re runnin’ in to the 
city. Can’t I set on the station and rest while 
they’s got money to take the cars? Can’t I? 
Who’s going to stop me?” 


135 


Sam Diggs 

‘'I’ll stop you, if you ever go near the Dobbs 
farm. And I want to tell you, Sam Diggs, 
that old man Dobbs hasn’t any money. There 
is nothing therfe to rob, nothing worth steal- 
ing. The Belgian there has the mortgage on 
the farm. Old man Dobbs is poor.” 

“Then what’s all this talk about?” was the 
ready answer of the accused man. 

“I simply wanted to show you that you and 
J oe were wrong in planning a robbery. Y ou 
wouldn’t have got a cent for your work. And 
now just a final word to you. I am your 
friend. I am warning you in time, you hear?” 

“Yes, I hear,” was the reply as Sam Diggs 
strolled out of the station. He returned after 
a few minutes and coming up to the Indian 
said: “Good-by, Injun Joe. Sam Diggs is 
your friend. Here’s ten cents, it’s all I got.” 

"By,” replied the Indian in a childlike voice. 

“Get your things and be back here at the sta- 
tion in half an hour,” said Dr. Murt to the 
Indian. 

“Me got nothin’.” 

“No coat or pants?” 

“Me got nothin’.” 

“Get your shirts, socks, and so on.” 

“Me got nothin’, all here,” and the Indian 
put his hand upon his back. 


136 


Sam Diggs 

“Well, I’ll give you a letter to the Govern- 
ment agent in Omaha. He will look after 
you. I see now that you should have been sent 
from this place long ago. You got in with the 
wrong man. That Sam Diggs has simply 
ruined you. Wait here and I’ll write the 
letter.” 

Half an hour later the train pulled out of 
Sandpit with Injun Joe aboard. 

Standing behind a barn and unobserved by 
any one Sam Diggs watched the departing 
train. Then anger stirred within his breast. 

Who was this Dr. Frederic Murt that he 
should threaten Sam Diggs? What power 
had he to command the Indian to go away? 
He would show this Dr. Murt that all threats 
were useless ! 

He would go out to the Dobbs farm on the 
following day. No one could convince him 
that old farmer Dobbs had not hidden gold 
away in his house. He would look around! 
He would see the best place to enter the house 
and then later he would get the gold. 

Better not to have the stupid Indian with 
him. Now the gold would be all his, with no 
one to tell the tale of the robbery — Dr. Murt 
had done him a real favor by sending the 
Indian away ! Ha ! ha I ha ! 



“W'ith ceaseless energy it grappled and tore the roots until 
the trees went whirling away like black and monstrous things 

of \\\G”—Page 135. 



137 


Sam Diggs 

Half art hour later Sam Diggs was sitting in 
his room. It was an attic without heat and 
with little light. Before him was a broken 
mirror. He was fitting on a beard of short 
reddish hair. 


CHAPTER XIV 


MUSKRATS AND A VISITOR 

‘‘^AY, Roily, you don’t weigh as much as an 
lij angel.” 

‘‘What’s an angel, Walter?” 

“Don’t know what an angel is! Jiminy 
crickets! Don’t know what an angel is! 
Why an angel is — an angel is — why, angels 
don’t weigh anything.” 

“How do you know, Walter?” 

“They are lighter than feathers. They can 
go from heaven to earth in a bat of the eye!” 
“What’s heaven, Walter?” 

“Don’t know what heaven is! Why heaven 
is the place where good people go after death.” 
“Where is it, Walter?” 

“Gee, you ask a lot of hard questions. It’s 
away up in the skies somewhere.” 

“Was you ever there, Walter?” 

“Course not! Didn’t I say that people 
went there after death? I ain’t dead, am I? 
But say, you are the skinniest thing I ever saw. 
Why your muscles remind me of lead pencils. 
And your face — ” 


138 


Muskrats and a Visitor 


139 


Here Walter paused. There was some- 
thing in that face that seemed unearthly — pale, 
pleading, sutfering — it was a picture and not a 
reality. It was almost ethereal. It idealized 
the angelic. 

“Say you look like an angel. Were you 
ever baptized?” 

“What’s that, Walter?” 

“Course you weren’t. What’s the use of my 
asking you that question; but some day you 
might be, and then you’ll be a real angel, and 
just as pretty as your angel guardian. But 
up you go, little feather, little angel, and away 
you go to the muskrat domes !” 

The two boys were on an inspection trip. 
Rudolph Seyon, who was in Sandpit, had 
promised to buy three steel traps. The lads 
had started out to look over the muskrat village 
and to conjecture where the Belgian would set 
the traps. They had gone but a short distance 
when Rollin began to breathe heavily and 
finally could go no farther. It was then that 
Walter had picked him up and exclaimed that 
he was as light as an angel. 

Bearing his tiny burden Walter romped over 
the rough corn-field and soon stood near the 
shore of the lake. 

The muskrats had located their house very 


140 Muskrats and a Visitor 

ingeniously. They were some fifteen feet 
from land, and yet the water was so shallow 
that it could with difficulty be reached in a 
canoe. Safe from attack by land or water, the 
colony had fiourished until a miniature city 
had' grown up under the industry of the inhab- 
itants. All kinds of weeds and twigs were 
used in the construction, but corn-stalks 
formed the heavier timber for the buildings. 
It was a busy city where all day long close 
observation might witness the extension of new 
houses. They were all of the same style of 
architecture, with little inverted domes some 
four feet in diameter and three feet high, with 
the entrance at the bottom and through the 
water. But Mr. Muskrat didn’t seem to mind 
a little dip even in the coldest weather, for he 
soon dried himself in his soft bed of satin corn 
huskings. 

In the summer time the little animals made 
long trips from home and lived on sweet corn 
and vegetables; but in winter they contented 
themselves with feeding upon the roots which 
they found at the bottom of the lake. They 
were easily tempted with a slice of bread in a 
steel trap. 

“Who will see the first muskrat?” whispered 


Muskrats and a Visitor 141 

Walter as he put his companion down on the 
ground. 

“Gee, they are building lots of houses,” said 
Rollin. 

“So much the better, for there’ll be more for 
us to trap, and remember we get thirty cents 
for each skin.” 

“Can you skin ’em?” 

“No, but if Rudolph shows me I can.” 

“I want to learn too.” 

“We must both learn, for we are to get the 
money, Mr. Seyon said so.” 

“I wonder what that big house is?” and Rol- 
lin pointed toward a corn-stalk dome larger 
than the rest. 

“That may be the church,” replied Walter. 

“Do muskrats go to church?” 

“There you are again! Of course not! I 
was only fooling!” 

“Will they go to heaven?” 

“Good heavens ! No!” 

“I see one — I see one!” cried out Rollin. 

“Yes, you are first,” acknowledged Walter 
looking out where there was a stir in the water, 
“but you frightened it away.” 

The boys waited in patience for some time, 
but the muskrat did not reappear. 


142 


Muskrats and a Visitor 


“They have all hidden,” explained Walter. 
“Rudolph said that they told each other when 
there was danger, and they all stayed in their 
houses.” 

“Where will he set the traps?” asked Rollin. 

“Let us look; he said that there were little 
paths or roads leading from the lake to the 
field; he’ll put the traps in these roads.” 

Almost crawling along they sought in vain 
to find the highways of travel of the little deni- 
zens of the domed village. 

“Here is a road,” blurted out Walter as he 
bent down to make a close examination, “and 
gee, it’s smooth. All the muskrats of the lake 
must go along this way.” 

“We’ll tell Rudolph,” put in Rollin, “and 
he’ll catch them all.” 

“Catch all of what?” The two boys looked 
up and saw standing at their side a queer look- 
ing individual with a very funny red beard. 
It was Sam Diggs. “Lots of muskrats here,” 
he continued, “and the skins are worth thirty 
cents each. But say, boys, I am hungry ; can’t 
you take me to the house and get me something 
to eat? I have walked all the way from Omaha 
and haven’t had anything to eat for two days.” 

“We’ll go up and see if Mrs. Seyon has 
something,” said Walter. 


Muskrats and a Visitor 


143 


‘‘Are there any men at the house?” the 
stranger wanted to know. 

“Mr. Dobbs has gone to town and Mr. 
Seyon with him. They are getting some steel 
traps, and we are going to catch muskrats and 
sell the skins.” 

“Do you know how to skin them?” asked the 
man. 

“No, sir, but Rudolph is going to show us,” 
rephed Walter. 

“And I am going to learn too,” joined in 
Rollin. 

“That’s fine. I wish you good luck; but 
come on to the house and ask the lady to get 
me something to eat. I am glad the men are 
not at home, for I am very bashful. I’m a 
hard-working man and have never begged 
before.” 

“We can’t walk fast,” explained Walter, 
“for Rollin has a weak heart.” 

“Suppose I carry him. I like little boys, 
and he is such a nice-looking little boy.” 

“I carried him half way here,” said Walter 
proudly. 

“He don’t weigh more than six feathers,” 
asserted the man as he lifted the little bur- 
den. 

“I said he was lighter than that,” replied 


144 


Muskrats and a Visitor 

Walter. ‘‘I said he was as light as an angel, 
and he did not know what an angel was.” 

“When I was a boy,” said the stranger, “I 
was so good that my mother used to call me an 
angel; but since then I have become a black 
angel. Do you know what a black angel is?” 

“I do,” answered Walter, “but Rollin don’t 
know anything about angels.” 

“Well, what is a black angel!” 

“It’s the devil,” said the boy. 

“You are right, my lad, the black angel is 
the devil. Of course I am not that bad; still 
I ain’t as good as I used to be, and I’m so hun- 
gry that I could eat straw. Do you think the 
woman will give me anything?” 

“She’s mighty good,” replied Walter. 

“And she cooked two ducks for us and a 
great big goose,” put in Rollin. 

“I do hope that there is some of that goose 
left. I used to be a rich man and I had goose 
three times a week.” 

At the door they met Mrs. Seyon. “This 
man wants something to eat,” said Walter. 

“Is he a tramp?” she asked. 

“No, madam, he’s not a tramp,” replied the 
man, at the same time making a profound bow. 
“It certainly hurts my feelings to be called a 
tramp. I am used to comfort and I would 


Muskrats and a Visitor 


145 


ask you not only to give me something to eat, 
but let me go in and sit at the table in the din- 
ing-room/’ Without waiting for a reply or 
further invitation he walked into the room, still 
carrying little Rollin in his arms. 

“Now, my little man,” said he, “when I’m 
through eating I’ll give you a nickel. Sit 
right here at the windy and look for your 
father and the man with him. If you see them 
coming just tell me, for I’ll run out to meet the 
master of the house. Ah, how fortunate for 
me to come just at this time to get the rem- 
nants of the goose,” he continued, turning to 
Mrs. Seyon, who had placed on the table a dish 
with a bountiful supply of bread and potatoes 
and cold meat, including the leg of a goose. 

He had scarcely started to enjoy his repast 
when Rollin announced that the team was com- 
ing up the road with his father and Mr. Seyon. 

Sam Diggs was determined to insist on fur- 
ther hospitality and to spend the night in the 
house. He was convinced that he would not 
be recognized. Whether he would rob that 
night or wait for another occasion would 
depend on the information which he was able 
to get from the farmer. He was rapidly run- 
ning over in his mind just how he would greet 
the latter and what he would represent himself 


146 


Muskrats and a Visitor 


to be, when Walter ran up to the window and 
announced that Dr. Hurt’s machine was fol- 
lowing behind the team. 

The visitor hastily gathered up the goose-leg 
and some bread, slipped out of the door, ran 
behind the barn and across the corn-field, 
where he lay hid until it was dark. Later he 
returned and slept in the barn loft. 

The men paid little attention to the story of 
the two boys about the stranger. He was sim- 
ply a tramp who had dropped in for a meal. 
The matter was given no further consideration. 


CHAPTER XV 

YOUNG TRAPPERS 

IT up, big horse! Git up — git up!” 

Vj And Rollin struck at the Belgian with 
an imaginary whip, while over the rough 
ground the man carried the lad high up on his 
shoulder. Walter trotted by Mr. Seyon’s 
side, carrying the three steel traps. 

F or days the boys had talked of nothing but 
trapping muskrats, and now the eventful 
morning had come and they were on their way 
to the lake. 

“And you have found the road which leads 
from the muskrat colony,” said Mr. Seyon to 
the little fellow whom he was carrying. 

“Yes, indeed, and it’s a big road.” 

“And there must be hundreds of muskrats 
going over it every day,” joined in Walter. 

“What makes you think so?” 

“Because the ground is worn so smooth.” 

“Then we’ll put the traps along this road. 

No doubt some of the rats are already getting 

their breakfast out in the field, and we’ll catch 

147 


148 Young Trappers 

them when they return home to take their noon 
nap.” 

‘'Do you think we’ll catch a hundred to-day, 
Mr. Seyon?” asked Rollin who pictured to 
himself whole droves of the little animals run- 
ning into the traps. 

“No, if we catch two each day I’ll be satis- 
fied.” 

“Can I set the traps, Mr. Seyon?” Walter 
wanted to know. 

“Not to-day. One might catch your hand. 
Steel traps are dangerous, you know. This 
is a new kind we have. It most always gets 
the rat right around the neck and it is dead in a 
few seconds. The old trap frequently caught 
the animal by the leg and it suffered a long 
time.” 

In the meanwhile they were drawing near 
the colony, where an occasional splash showed 
that the inhabitants were up and working. 

“Where is the road?” asked the Belgian, as 
they came close to the water. 

“Right here, Mr. Seyon,” and with pride 
Walter pointed out the path which led from 
the lake into the field. 

“Big road — smooth road,” said the man put- 
ting Rollin on the ground and stooping to 
examine the path. 


Young Trappers 149 

“And the muskrats have one big house/’ put 
in Rollin. 

“And you called it a church, and I wanted 
to know if muskrats went to church,” laughed 
Rollin. 

“My! my! my!” exclaimed the Belgian after 
further investigation, “big road — elephant 
road!” 

“Oh, Mr. Seyon!” cried out Rollin, “ele- 
phants are in the circus. They couldn’t get 
into one of those small houses.” 

“Big road! Big road! Very big road! 
Look at the tracks!” and the man pointed to 
them, 

“I know, I know,” rejoined Walter clap- 
ping his hands, “it’s a pig road. Here is 
where the pigs come down to get water.” 

“Right you are, boy ! Right you are ! And 
now let us look for the muskrat path! It will 
be winding; it will go under bushes and grass 
for the little fellows don’t want to be seen.” 

Soon it was found. It looked like a fairy 
path where the wee creatures slipped in and 
out at night. 

“Here goes for the first trap,” said the Bel- 
gian as he cut a slice of bread and fixed it on 
the trigger. “If a muskrat comes and looks 
at this trap it will catch the fellow.” 


150 


Young Trappers 

“Well, we are looking at it, Mr. Seyon,” 
remarked Rollin. 

“But it isn’t made to catch us. Of course 
the animal will have to smell at it a little, but 
if we haven’t a thirty-cent prize before dinner 
I’m much mistaken.” 

Some fifty feet from the lake the path 
branched, one part leading to the corn-field 
and the other to an old cabbage-patch. 

“We would be sure of getting one right at 
the fork of the road,” said the Belgian, “but I 
want to know just where they are feeding. 
Let us set a trap ten feet away and one on each 
branch. We’ll then find out from which direc- 
tion they come.” 

After trap number two had been adjusted 
the Belgian turned to Walter. “You’ll set the 
next one,” he began. “Do as I tell you and 
there’ll be no danger. Take this trap in your 
hand. You notice that the trigger is on this 
side.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Well, never catch hold of it there. Always 
take the other side and you’ll never get in trou- 
ble. Now try. Get your hand beneath it. 
Now with the other hand pull back the sprint.” 

“Snap!” 


V oung Trappers 151 

“You have it started. No danger, pull at 
it again.” 

“It wasn’t so hard!” and Walter smiled as 
he drew the spring back. 

“Now catch it with the trigger.” 

“But it isn’t baited,” said the boy. 

“Not yet. I want you to practise with it 
first.” 

Walter repeated the lesson several times. 
“Why, it’s easy,” he said with delight. “Slip 
the bread on the trigger and set it again.” 

It was all simple under the direction of the 
man. 

“Now, what must you always remember to 
do?” he asked. 

“I know,” blurted out Rollin. “Never 
catch it by the side where the trigger is.” 

“Good! Both of you remember it; and 
some day, Rollin, you can set one of the traps. 
But I must go to work. At ten o’clock you 
two can come down to the lake. If there is a 
muskrat caught bring the trap and the animal 
back to the house, for the trap has to be cleaned 
each time.” 

“Up on my back, little angel,” and with 
these words Walter picked up his companion 
and jogged off toward the house. Yes, he 


152 Young Trappers 

often so called the wee little fellow — ^Angel 
Roily. 

Those were two long, long hours — from 
eight to ten that morning. Had the clock 
stopped? Would the big hand ever make its 
rounds. It seemed a whole day before the 
small hand reached nine ! Could they possibly 
wait until the second hour had gone by ? The 
boys imagined scores of muskrats fighting over 
the traps and wondered which one would suc- 
ceed in getting caught. It was too bad that 
there wasn’t a trap large enough to catch the 
whole colony at once. They talked and imag- 
ined, and imagined and talked, and were so 
anxious to see what was really happening that 
they could no longer endure the torture of 
waiting. It was nearly half -past nine. They 
would walk slowly — very slowly — so as to 
reach the traps at ten. 

They did walk slowly in the yard and for a 
few feet in the field, then Walter, eager to get 
to the traps, hastened his steps, with the result 
that little Rollin gasped and could go no far- 
ther. They rested for a while, then unable to 
bear the delay Rollin mounted upon Walter’s 
back to take a ride. 

The trap leading into the corn-field was just 


Young Trappers 153 

as they had left it. But see — there in the other 
trap, only a few feet away, was the first catch! 

“Hurrah!” cried Walter who was the first to 
see the prize. 

“Is it dead?” asked Rollin as they 
approached closer. 

“Dead as a door-nail,” replied the other, 
touching the animal with his toe. 

No hunter of large game ever prided himself 
more on the success of a shot than did the two 
boys on the work of their steel trap. They 
stood looking at the dead rodent, admired its 
coat of soft fur, and wondered and wondered 
what it would bring them in the market. 

Carrying the trap and the muskrat they 
went on to the lake, but things here were undis- 
turbed. 

“We’ll get one more before dinner,” said 
Walter. 

“And three more before night,” were the 
hopeful words of Rollin. 

They were starting back to the house when 
the man with the red whiskers approached. 
“Fine muskrat, boys! Fine one! Very fine 
one!” he said as he walked up to Walter and 
took the animal in his hand. 

“We are going to get more,” replied Rollin. 


154 Young Trappers 

‘‘Hope you do I Hope you do !” 

“This is worth thirty cents, explained 
Walter. 

“No, my young man, it’s worth forty cents. 
It’s the largest muskrat I ever seen, and now 
looking at ic careful I’d say it’s worth forty- 
five cents; yes, sirs, fifty cents.” 

Rollin’s eyes opened wide as he thought of 
the great fortune which he and Walter would 
have. 

“I’m going into town and will take it right 
along and bring you the money back to-night. 
You were so good to me last night that I want 
to pay you back, and I’ll do you this favor.” 

“But you didn’t pay me that five cents last 
night,” pleaded Rollin. 

“F orgot all about it ! I’ll give you ten cents 
to-night. I’m goin’ to buy a farm near here 
and may be your neighbor in a few weeks.” 
Without waiting for an answer the man 
removed the muskrat from the trap and handed 
the latter back to Walter. “I’ll be back before 
night,” were his parting words. 

“I wonder whether that guy will ever come 
back!” ejaculated AValter after recovering 
from his surprise. 

“He’s a bad, bad man,” asserted Rollin. 

Back to the house they went and told their 


Young Trappers 155 

experience to Mrs. Seyon, who laughed and 
said that the man was only a tramp and would 
never bring them the money. 

They were comforted at noon by a second 
prize. Rudolph showed them how to smoke 
the traps and Walter ran down once or twice 
in the afternoon to rebait them, for it was too 
hard on Rollin to make many trips. 

To the surprise of all the man did return at 
night, gave the boys fifty cents for the skin, and 
paid Rollin ten cents as he had promised; but 
he asked for supper and hospitality. His 
story about buying a neighboring farm was 
?i()t convincing. 

“See here, stranger,” said Rudolph Seyon, 
to the red-whiskered man, after the latter had 
finished his meal, “we have given you supper 
and we would like to be kind to you, but you 
can’t stay in the house. I’ll let you sleep in 
the barn if you make me one promise.” 

“What is that?” asked the man curtly. 

“That you won’t smoke. You may sit in 
this room and smoke, and here is tobacco and a 
pipe ; but I want your promise that you’ll not 
smoke near the barn.” 

“It’s your property,” replied Diggs, “and 
I’m only a guest. Some day I may be a neigh- 
bor — a respectable, friendly neighbor — a true 


156 


Ycmng Trappers 


and honest neighbor; but now I’m only a 
stranger, and I must accept what is offered.” 

The kindness and firmness of the Belgian 
had entirely disarmed the man. He spent the 
night in the barn, and early on the following 
morning made his way back to Sandpit. 

Several muskrats were caught each day dur- 
ing the first week of the sport, then the number 
gradually decreased until finally Rudolph 
Seyon was of the opinion that few if any were 
left in the colony. 

In all forty skins were sent in to Omaha and 
brought an average of thirty-one cents each. 
The boys divided the immense fortune with 
Rudolph and planned all kinds of things for 
the coming winter. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THAT RED-WHISKERED MAN 

“ T F I gave you a letter would it make you 

JL homesick?” 

“No, ma’am, I haven’t been homesick for a 
month.” 

“Then here is a letter from your parents.” 

Walter and Mrs. Murt were sitting near the 
big stove in the living-room awaiting the return 
of the doctor. That morning Walter had 
come back from his rather long visit to Rollin, 
and had given an account of their trapping 
muskrats. 

The boy opened the letter and read aloud. 
His father and mother, after enjoying their 
tour through Ireland, were about to start for 
the continent. They hoped to visit Rome and 
get the blessing of the Pope. They would 
probably return about the first of April. 

“And what are you going to do?” asked 
Mrs. Murt. “Will you stay with us until June 
or will you go back to Chicago as soon as your 
parents return from their trip abroad?” 


158 


That Red-Whiskered Man 


‘‘I don’t know; but I’m having lots of fun.” 

“And what do you like best?” 

“That hunting on the Loup River was 
great,” replied the boy, “but I did have a fine 
time catching the muskrats.” 

“And you don’t know which sport you like 
the best?” 

“Gee! it’s all so good.” 

“I’m glad to know that you are enjoying it,” 
said the woman with motherly affection. 

“Oh 1 but I didn’t tell you about the prairie- 
dogs.” 

“No, not a word; tell me about them,” for 
Mrs. Murt was anxious to distract the boy’s 
thoughts from the letter which he had just 
received. 

“Well, we all got in the big farm wagon and 
drove to the prairie-dog colony. And Mrs. 
Seyon, she — ” 

“Did Mrs. Seyon go?” 

“Why, yes, we called it a picnic, and all went 
except Mr. Dobbs.” 

“What did you do on the picnic?” 

“Rudolph went off to hunt jack-rabbits, 
with my gun, and Rollin, Mrs. Seyon, and my- 
self sat in the wagon and watched the little 
dogs, and listened to them bark. When you 
make a noise they just run in and hide, every 


That Red-Whiskered Man 159 

one of them. Then in a few minutes you see 
little heads sticking out, and soon all the little 
dogs are out sitting on the hills.” 

“Did you see the owls and snakes?” 

“We saw the owls — lots of ’em; but the 
snakes didn’t come out. I heard Dr. Murt say 
that there were snakes in the holes. Rollin 
went and looked into some of the holes and I 
yelled, ‘Snakes!’ Gee, Rolhn nearly dropped. 
Say, he’s got a bad heart, and it’s getting worse 
every day. Why, I have to carry him around 
like a baby.” 

“Don’t you get tired carrying him?” 

“No, he don’t weigh anything. I call him 
an angel. He is so light.” 

“And how do you know how much angels 
weigh?” asked the amused woman. 

“I always thought angels didn’t weigh any- 
thing, Mrs. Murt.” 

“Perhaps you are right; but tell me more 
about the prairie-dog colony.” 

“Well, we just stayed around all day, and 
Mrs. Seyon gave us a good lunch, and Rudolph 
killed two jack-rabbits and then we came 
home.” 

“I think that it is about time for class to 
begin,” said Mrs. Murt, and with these words 
she walked over to the dining-room table and 


160 That Red-Whiskered Man 

rang a little bell. ‘‘I like to start with the 
bell/’ she continued, “it seems to me more like 
a real school. I enjoyed teaching, and it has 
been such a pleasure for me to teach you, Wal- 
ter. I look forward to the pleasant hours we’ll 
have in winter.” 

It had been understood that the doctor was 
to be Walter’s instructor; but by degrees the 
wife had taken over the work, partly because 
she really enjoyed the teaching and partly 
because the doctor’s hours were so irregular. 
At first she assisted Walter with his English, 
then she heard his lessons in modern history, 
and finally she worked with him over his prob- 
lems in geometry. With real joy and enthu- 
siasm she gave herself to the preparation of 
these lessons. Walter realized that she under- 
stood the matter thoroughly and presented it 
clearly. But that bell! the dreadful ringing 
of that bell before each class. It simply took 
the pleasure out of his work; he even grew 
nervous when his teacher went over to ring the 
bell. 

“Mrs. Murt,” said he faintly that night, 
“may I ask a favor?” 

“Why, of course.” 

“And you won’t be olf ended?” 

“Walter, why do you ask such a question?” 


That Red-Whiskered Man 


161 


“Because I am really afraid that I might 
offend you.” 

“Wal — ter!” she almost gasped. ' 

“But if you only knew how I felt about it.” 

“Home! Your parents! What is it?” 

“Neither home nor parents.” 

“What? Do tell me!” and she reached out 
and grasped his hand. 

“It’s the bell, JMrs. Murt. Please do not 
ring that bell when we begin to work.” 

“Why? Why, Walter? I thought that 
you liked it?” 

“No, and I didn’t want to tell you. It just 
makes cold shivers run down my back — indeed 
it does. It makes me feel as if I was going to 
be sent to jail — indeed it does.” 

“Why, Walter, I thought that it was so nice 
to hear the bell and then begin work, as they 
do in a regular school. Of course I won’t ring 
it again, I thought that you would be pleased. 
Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

Then there was a short silence. Walter felt 
abashed at his own request, and the doctor’s 
wife was really grieved to learn that she had 
given him any pain. 

“Now, Walter,” she resumed, “I want to 
ask a favor of you.” 

“Certainly,” and he tried to smile, 


162 That Red’Whiskered Man 

“In the future I want you to tell me what to 
do for you. I want to make this study a real 
pleasure for both of us. I was so accustomed 
to the bell, and it reminded me so much of 
school! I liked teaching so very, very much, 
so you will let your teacher know, like a good 
boy, just when she can do anything for you.” 

“You are doing too much already,” he said 
in almost a whisper. 

Then the lesson in geometry was taken up; 
and was followed by modern history and 
English. 

“I like the way you teach English,” said the 
lad after some time had been spent in correct- 
ing an exercise. “In Chicago I wrote about 
things in books, but now I write about the 
things I see.” 

“You will like it still more in the spring, 
when we can go down to the swamps and 
gather violets.” 

“I am going to write a description of that 
wolf-hunt,” said the boy. 

“And why not write a composition on trap- 
ping muskrats?” 

“I have so many subjects that I scarcely 
know which one to choose,” he acknowledged. 

“But there is the doctor at last,” said the 
woman as she heard a noise on the porch. 


That Red-Whiskered Man 


163 


Opening the door she saw before her a shab- 
bily dressed man with red whiskers. 

“Pardon me, ma’am; but I am a stranger 
here and would like to ask for something to 
eat.” 

“It’s rather late, my good sir; I have just 
kept enough in the house for my husband, who 
is expected at any moment.” 

“Can’t you spare a little for a very hungry 
and deserving citizen?” 

“I don’t know about the deserving citizen,” 
laughed the lady of the house. “All of you 
tramps claim to be deserving citizens.” 

“Pardon me, lady, but I am not a tramp ; I 
am a respectable citizen who has come here to 
investigate real estate.” 

“Generally such persons would have suffi- 
cient to pay for their meals.” 

“I met with hard luck and lost my pocket- 
book.” 

“Just wait. I’ll get you something to eat.” 

“Won’t you let a person step into the 
house?” pleaded the stranger. “It’s a cold 
night, and I’m used to comfort.” 

“Come in, then, and sit near the stove with 
this little boy.” 

The doctor’s wife went to the dining-room and 
soon returned with a plentiful supply on a dish. 


164 


That Red-Whiskered Man 


“My good woman,” said the stranger, “a 
thousand thanks ! I’ll just take what you have 
brought and eat it outside. Good night and 
many thanks!” 

“A rather polite tramp,” said Mrs. Murt to 
Walter. 

“Oh, Mrs. Murt,” cried Walter, as soon as 
the door was shut. “I saw that man before. 
He was begging at Mr. Dobbs’s house. He 
took the first muskrat we caught and gave us 
fifty cents for it. That’s the very man. I 
know it is.” 

“Gracious!” cried the woman, standing by 
the dresser, “did that man come over here to 
the dresser while I was in the dining-room?” 

“Yes,” replied the boy, “he went over and 
brushed his hair.” 

“And stole my ring and a — a — and a 
pocket-book!” 

“The thief!” exclaimed Walter. 

“Walter, my boy, ring up the town marshal; 
tell him to come to Dr. Murt’s residence at 
once. The first time I ever let a tramp into 
the house. It will be a lesson for me — a real 
good lesson for me!” 

The marshal came, got a description of the 
man, and then went out to search for him. No 
one had seen a stranger in the village that 


That Red-JVhiskered Man 165 

afternoon or night and no trace of the thief 
could be found. 

In the meanwhile Sam Diggs had reached 
his room. “Ha! ha! ha!” he laughed. “I’ll 
show that smart doctor! I’ll show him! He 
can’t frighten Sam Diggs. He might scare 
the Injun! Ha! ha! Went right into his 
own house and got his own pocket-book. 
Ha ! ha ! Five — ten — twenty — thirty dollars — 
Sam Diggs will start on a trip this very night. 
Some day he’ll come back and get old Dobbs’s 
gold. You can’t fool Sam Diggs! Old 
Dobbs is rich ! He’s got gold and Sam Diggs 
will have his share! Ha! ha! ha!” 

All the while he was packing his few clothes 
into an old satchel, and in less than half an hour 
he was far from town. 

When Dr. Murt returned he asked for a full 
description of the tramp. Then calling up the 
marshal he had a conference with him. 

“I suspect some one right here in town,” he 
said to the official. 

“If he broke into a house, yes, but who would 
walk up to the front door. He’d be recog- 
nized.” 

“Unless he were disguised.” 

“Oh, you think it was some one wearing 


166 


That Red^Whiskered Man 


“A false beard — a red beard.’’ 

“And who?” 

“Sam Diggs. It was Sam Diggs, marshal; 
and we’ve got to go right to his room.” 

“It can do no harm to investigate,” said the 
official. 

“No, it can do no harm.” 

They started off at once. Up the dark 
stairs the two men crept, and knocked at the 
door. No answer came. 

“Throw our weight against the door,” 
ordered the marshal. They did so and the 
door gave way with a crash. The room was 
empty. By the aid of the official’s flashlight 
they found a false beard of red hair. 

“That settles the question,” exclaimed Dr. 
Murt. 

“You were right in your suspicion,” gi'anted 
the marshal. 

Word was immediately sent to the neighbor- 
ing towns and railroad stations, but no trace 
could be found of the missing man. 


CHAPTER XVII 


ANGEL ROLLY 

W ALTER continued to devote some time to 
his books during the fall and winter, 
studying under the direction of Dr. and Mrs. 
Murt who proved efficient and interesting 
instructors. 

He and the doctor made several hunting ex- 
peditions to the Loup River, and when the 
snow fell enjoyed shooting jack-rabbits. 

An occasional visit was paid to Rollin, who 
in turn spent some time with Walter. 

December came on and with it the beautiful 
feast of the Nativity. Rollin had a Christmas 
tree. He did not know what it all meant, but 
the tree with its lights was wondrous indeed. 

During the long winter days the little boy 
was in the house with Mrs. Seyon while his 
father and the Belgian were out on the farm or 
feeding the stock. Day after day she told the 
little boy of God and the angels and saints. 

She saw that the flame of life was burning low 

167 


168 


Angel Roily 

and before that flame went out she was deter- 
mined to have the child baptized. 

So gently and tactfully did she do the work 
that farmer Dobbs never for a moment 
objected to the influence that was being 
brought to bear upon Rollin. At times the lad 
spoke of the things he had heard, but the father 
understood not the mysteries which were men- 
tioned. 

This much Rollin learned well. That there 
was a good God who punished those who did 
evil and rewarded those who were good. That 
there was another life after the present one; 
that there was a beautiful home called heaven, 
and that all who entered heaven must be bap- 
tized. 

Winter came and went. The honk of the 
wild geese was heard overhead as they re- 
turned from their southern sojourn; and flocks 
of wild ducks dipped into the lake, tarried for 
a while and then sailed on to their northern 
homes. 

One chill day in March Rollin was taken 
with a cold which quickly developed into pneu- 
monia. Dr. Murt pronounced the case critical 
indeed. With the lad’s frail form and the con- 
dition of his heart it seemed scarcely possible 
that he could pull through the ordeal. 


169 


Angel Roily 

The doctor had several calls to make that 
day, and could not promise to return until the 
following morning. Walter, who had come 
out for a visit to his little friend, at the urgent 
request of the Belgian woman, remained. 

That afternoon when the men were in the 
field plowing, Mrs. Seyon came in and whis- 
pered to Walter: “You must baptize little 
Rollin.’’ 

“I don’t Imow how,” and the boy shrank to 
the side of the room. 

“Yes, you do! You learned it in the cate- 
chism class.” 

“But I’ve forgotten, Mrs. Seyon! Indeed 
I have!” 

“You haven’t. Come out in the other room 
and I will show you.” 

“Send for the priest!” pleaded the affrighted 
Walter. 

“Hush! hush! Mr. Dobbs will never let a 
priest come into this house!” 

“But I don’t know how!” 

“I will show you. Come! Come!” 

A sudden fright had seized the boy. He 
forgot everything he had learned about the 
sacrament of Baptism. 

‘T can’t! I can’t!” he affirmed as he went 
into the kitchen and threw himself into a 


170 


Angel Roily 

chair with his arms resting on the table. “I 
can’t ! I know I can’t !” 

“Don’t you like little Rollin, Walter?” 

“Yes.” 

“Would you do him a favor?” 

“Yes — m-a-a-m.” 

“Don’t you want him to go to heaven?” 

“Yes — m-a-a-m.” 

“Must he be baptized?” 

“Yes. Y-e-s — m-a-a-m.” 

“I have been teaching him all winter. He 
knows all about God and heaven, and he knows 
that he must be baptized. You, his little 
friend, must baptize him.” 

“How? how?” 

“Come, I will show you. You can practise. 
Here’s a cup of water. Pour it on my hand 
and say the words.” 

Three times the boy repeated the act, each 
time saying the words, which now came back 
to him so readily that he wondered how he had 
ever doubted or forgotten. 

Big tears gathered in the boy’s eyes, and 
with trembling hand he carried the cup of 
water into the room. Near the bed Mrs. 
Seyon reminded Rollin of the sacrament which 
he was to receive. It would make him a child 
of God and if he died the angels would carry 


171 


Angel Roily 

him to heaven. Then she held a cloth under 
the child’s head and drew Walter nearer to the 
bed. 

“Pour the water on his forehead,” she said, 
“and say the words: T baptize thee in the name 
of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy 
Ghost.’ ” 

He did so ; and a sudden strength came into 
his hand and voice. 

The good woman dropped upon her knees 
and wept with holy joy. Walter, too, knelt 
and prayed. 

“Now you are an angel, Rollin,” she whis- 
pered, “a real angel. And, oh, you look like 
an angel, Rollin!” 

Angel now he was ! The beauty of his soul 
was stamped upon his countenance. His little 
companion had poured the saving water upon 
his forehead and in his soul grace had wrought 
its marvelous change. Angel now he was! 
Angel Roily! 

The Belgian woman now brought a blessed 
candle, lighted it and put it near his bed. It 
was symbolical of the light of faith which now 
was his. 

The afternoon went by, the candle burned 
low, and with it was going — going the frail 
delicate life of angel Roily. 


172 


Angel Roily 

He was weak, so weak that he felt no pain ; 
but his mind was bright and with the Belgian 
woman he repeated an act of love. 

The candle burned and dropped and went 
out; darkness came on. Rollin’s eyes were 
closed. 

Mrs. Seyon bent over him. There was a 
gasp. She saw the end was near. She placed 
her hand under the child’s head. 

“Kneel down and pray,” she whispered to 
Walter, “Roily is dying.” 

The boy sank down, joined his hands and 
prayed. 

Another faint gasp. It was the end. The 
soul of little Rollin went forth to God. 

Mrs. Seyon let the head fall back upon the 
pillow. How gently it rested there! Rested 
as if little Rollin slept. 

“Your little friend has gone to heaven,” she 
said faintly to Walter. 

“I called him angel,” answered Walter, “for 
he was so white and beautiful. Now he is an 
angel! Angel Roily has gone to the other 
angels in heaven !” 

The father came in, and saw at a glance 
what had happened. He dropped into a chair 
and sat in silence. The Belgian workman fol- 


Angel Holly 173 

lowed, removed his hat, fell upon his knees and 
prayed. 

Two days later they buried little Rollin 
on the hillside above the house. Dr. and Mrs. 
Murt were present, with the two Belgians, 
Walter, and the father. None of the neigh- 
bors came. 

Cold and drear it was the morning when 
they laid the little body to rest in the grave 
which Rudolph had dug; but soon the wild 
violets would bedeck the mound and morning 
glories would creep upon it, and the yucca 
would throw its clusters of flowers over it. 

Sleep, Rollin! Angel Roily, sleep. 
Blessed soul that went before its God with the 
waters of Baptism still moistening the fore- 
head of the frail body. 

Sleep, Rollin! Though death has claimed 
its own and earth has claimed its own, the spirit 
has been stronger than they. Up, up to God 
has it risen midst jubilations. 

Sleep, Rollin! But thy sleep is not to be 
forever. Some day the touch of the hand of 
God will be felt, and this frail body of corrup- 
tion will arise, and into it will enter thy soul 
with all its wondrous beauty. 

But sleep now — Angel Roily — sleep! 


CHAPTER XVIII 


THE SAND-STORM 

J UNE had come. It was warm and bright. 

A wind sprang up. It was a playful 
wind. It bent the tops of the morning glories 
on the hills ; it tossed the blossoms of the mari- 
gold in the marshes; it rocked the fledgling 
herons in their cozy nest among the sand 
cherries; it ruffled the checkered breasts of the 
prairie-chickens as they sailed through the 
great sea of air. 

In this endless world of rolling sand-hills it 
seemed that nature would never put forth her 
strength. Here there was nothing to awaken 
or defy the powers of the elements. All was. 
unbroken monotony! All was boundless 
peace ! 

But there was no peace in the heart of one 
who tramped the highway on that shimmering 
day of June. Sam Diggs had returned to 
Sandpit with the avowed purpose of robbing 
Isidore Dobbs. No one could deceive him 
longer with the idle stories of the farmer’s 

174 


The Sand-Storm 175 

being poor! Rich he was! Gold he had! 
That gold must belong to Sam Diggs ! 

The day went on. The wind was still play- 
ful; but it caught up the sand here and there 
and scattered it over the clusters of blooming 
yucca. The prairie-chickens shrank before 
the wind and hid in the bunch-grass. The 
fledgling herons crept low in their little nest, 
which tipped and rocked with the quivering 
branches. 

Noon came. The wind was no longer play- 
ful. Out in the corn-field the leaves arose and 
scattered like great flocks of affrighted birds. 
The whirling sand swept over the hills and all 
but obscured the vision. 

On the porch at the Dobbs farm-house stood 
Walter Blakestone and Rudolph Seyon. The 
former had come out to visit his friends and 
say a prayer at Rollin’s grave before starting 
for Chicago, for his parents had returned from 
their foreign travels and had sent for him. 
Dr. Murt, who had brought Walter from 
Sandpit and had gone on a sick-call, was to 
pass by later in the day and take the lad with 
him. 

“Look! See! Two storms are coming!” 
suddenly cried the Belgian to the boy. 

Two clouds had appeared on the horizon, — 


176 


The Sand-Storm 


one to the east and one to the west. Closer 
and closer they came ; blacker and blacker they 
grew. Darkness swept on with rapid wings. 

Chickens scurried to their roosts, and a 
mother heron turned its flight to the nest in 
the sand-cherry cluster. 

The pent-up forces of nature were loosened; 
the hurricane fountains were thrown open! 
Closer and closer they came ; blacker and 
blacker they grew — the cloud from the east 
and the cloud from the west! 

Out into the yard walked Isidore Dobbs — 
first affrighted, then terrified, then speechless 
with wonder. 

Closer and closer they came; blacker and 
blacker they grew — the cloud from the east and 
the cloud from the west! Loud* were their 
voices! Defiant were their cries! On! On! 
And with a wild death challenge they met ! 

No man nor beast might stand within their 
paths! Round and round whirled the wind- 
storms. With giant hands they delved deep 
into the sand, heaved it forth and scattered it 
in great clouds. Torrents of sand went spout- 
ing into the air ; streams of sand came rushing 
to the ground ! 

On the side of the hill was ’a long corn-bin 
half filled with the last year’s crop. This 


The Sand-Storm 


177 


wooden structure was suddenly drawn into the 
air where it poised on the crest of a sand wave. 
Then the great currents tossed it higher and 
toyed with it like a ball in the jet of a fountain. 
A moment later it was rent asunder with its 
timbers scattering as so many straws in a gale, 
and its treasure of corn falling in a golden 
shower. 

The apple-trees around the corn-bin for a 
while bid defiance to the hurricane. Although 
leaves were stripped from the branches, and 
the young fruit was scattered with the dust and 
sand, still the trees hung tenaciously to the soil. 
But deep into the ground the storm dug and 
dug. It gnawed and tugged at every fiber. 
With ceaseless energy it grappled and tore 
the roots until they were broken and shredded. 
Then the trees went whirling away like black 
and monstrous things of life. 

A sand-shower rained down upon the head 
of Isidore Dobbs as he turned into the house. 
In rushed Walter and the Belgian gasping 
for breath, for their throats were parched and 
choked with the flying dust. 

Now all within was black as night. An oil 
lamp was quickly lighted. Every joint of the 
frame house squeaked and quivered. Sand 
came in under the door; sand worked its way 


178 


The Sand-Storm 


through every window; sand filtered up 
through the crevices of the floor; sand poured 
down in a stream through the chimney. 

With a crash a window pane blew in and 
after it came a veritable river of sand. No liv- 
ing thing could breathe in the air. Up to the 
second floor the inmates felt their way. But 
here too the windows were broken and the sand 
was pouring in. Higher up they crept to the 
attic, where there was but a single window, 
sheltered from the storm. It was their only 
hope. If it broke death was inevitable. 

Out in the yard the chickens fluttered, 
gasped and died. The horses stampeded, 
gained the open field and escaped death. Fol- 
lowing them were some of the cattle, while 
others were caught in a corner of the fence, 
against which they beat madly until they fell 
exhausted. 

From the road near the house came a cry. 
It was a cry for help. It was the voice of Sam 
Diggs. When the storm came on he had 
seized upon it as the best occasion to carry out 
his design. Black as were the clouds they 
were not blacker than the heart of the robber. 
Rob he would! If resisted he would kill! 
Come what would he would have the gold of 
farmer Dobbs! 


The Sand-Storm 


179 


The storm struck him as he neared the house. 
He only coughed at first when the dust whirled 
around him. Then he was gradually blinded, 
his eyes burning with an unnatural irritation. 
He sought the fence and groped his way along, 
thinking the gale was but a passing sand-storm. 

The sand seeped down his back and crept 
into his ears and nose and eyes. He closed 
his burning eyes and dragged himself along the 
fence. Into his throat the sand filtered. As 
he opened his mouth for breath he felt a stifling 
sensation. He tried to call for help, but found 
that his voice was feeble indeed. In despera- 
tion he sought to cry aloud, but the sand 
choked him all the more. Gasping he left the 
fence and tried to run. But soon he fell for 
want of air! 

Into his ears, into his eyes, into his nose, into 
his mouth the sand was forced by the beating, 
whirling wind. He could no longer breathe. 
He gasped and struggled in agony. The 
agony was short. Near the roadside lay the 
corpse of the robber — the would-be murderer. 
The sand fell over the body, gradually cov- 
ering it. 

From the small window in the attic the pris- 
oners saw a break in the clouds. Then streams 
of light came forth from the south. The 


180 


The Sand-Storm 


disc of the sun could be plainly distinguished. 
The roar of the storm among the rafters was 
no longer heard. The sand in the air settled 
down rapidly and seemed like a great curtain 
folding in the skies. After it the lighter dust 
filtered down like the mist of morning. 

Gradually the great black cm^tain which 
veiled the sky was pulled aside. The sun burst 
forth and glinted over the newly formed beds 
of sand. Down to the second floor crept the 
men and the woman. On the floor were six 
inches of sand. Everything was covered with 
it — tables, beds, chairs. It had penetrated 
into every nook and corner. The first floor 
was even worse, and in corners the drifting 
sand was three feet high. 

Without the house, the whole face of nature 
had been changed. Mounds of sand six feet in 
height were formed against the side of the 
building. For a long distance the whole hill- 
side was torn away. And greatest of all won- 
ders — the lake below had ceased to be! Not 
a drop of water was left in the basin. It was 
an arid extension of sand. In fact, the sand 
had not only filled the lake, but was fully a foot 
higher than the former water level. Not a liv- 
ing object was in sight ! Desolation, utter des- 
olation, brooded over the scene. 


The Sand-Storm 


181 


While the occupants of the house talked in 
subdued tones, as they stood upon a single 
small space in front of the house where the 
eddies had swept the drift away, some neigh- 
bors appeared at the front gate, walking with 
difficulty over the new bed of sand. Soon the 
farmers for miles around were gathering at the 
Dobbs farm-house. 

They brought the news that the storm was 
local — only the farm of farmer Dobbs had 
suffered. True, the dust and sand had been 
scattered for miles around, but only small 
quantities which were not noticeable when the 
storm had abated. 

People in the valley below told of the sud- 
den rush of water which followed the filling of 
the lake. At first the stream was clear, then 
with it came immense volumes of sand. 

All spoke of the two black clouds which had 
met on the ridge above the farm-house. Here 
they had formed the great twirling mass which 
belched forth clouds of sand until the whole 
country around was darkened. It was a terri- 
ble and wondrous sight! People had prayed, 
thinking every minute that their own house 
would be caught in the power of the resistless 
storm. 

Soon Dr. Murt came walking in, for he had 


182 


The Sand-Storm 


to leave his machine fully a quarter of a mile 
down the road. 

The curious, ever increasing crowd now scat- 
tered and walked over the farm. It was soon 
discovered that a new basin had been dug out 
along the side of the hill. It would soon be 
filled with water, some thought, as a whole hill- 
side drained into it. 

A farmer brought the news that the 
three horses were safe. Further investigation 
showed that many of the cattle were out in the 
fields. 

Farmer Dobbs had paid little attention to 
the neighbors, who had come unbidden upon 
his property. Now, however, when Dr. Murt 
appeared he approached him and said in an 
undertone: “Will you take me back to Sand- 
pit with you?” 

“I will do anything for you, Mr. Dobbs.” 

“I know you will, but this is the last favor 
I will ever ask. Ill be ready in fifteen min- 
utes. Will you start then?” 

“As you wish!” replied the physician. 

“Say nothing about it to any one,” and with 
these words the farmer returned to the house. 
Taking an old valise from a wardrobe and 
shaking the sand from it, he began to pack the 
few things which he possessed. Every gar- 


The Sand-Storm 


183 


merit was covered with sand and dust. When 
he had finished the preparation for departure 
he called the Belgian and his wife. 

“I am going now. All that is left is yours. 
If you can find the grave of little Rollin take 
care of it. Later I may write and give my 
address. I can not stay in this place another 
hour. That storm will haunt me! Good-by! 
And thank you both for your kindness to me 
and little Rollin. Good-by!” 

“But the farm is still yours,” pleaded Ru- 
dolph Seyon. 

“No, it won’t be worth the mortgage.” 

“Won’t you wait and see; it may turn out 
well,” said the Belgian woman. 

“No! — No! I am going! Good-by, Wal- 
ter; good-by, all!” and he shook their hands. 
He passed through the crowd of visitors with- 
out a word of recognition, and with Dr. Murt 
was soon trudging over the drifted sand to- 
ward the automobile. 

Dr. Murt insisted on carrying the valise, and 
leading the way. 

“That looks like a human form,” said he, 
glancing to the side of the road. Walking 
over to the mound, with his hand he brushed 
the sand away. “Great heavens!” he ex- 
claimed, “it’s the body of Sam Diggs!” 


CHAPTER XIX 

WHEN NEIGHBORS BECOME FRIENDS 

All hands to work!” shouted farmer 
jl \ Ballweg, one of the neighbors who had 
come to the Dobbs farmhouse. “Let us help 
these people 1 Hurry home, you men, and get 
wagons and shovels, and bring brooms and 
mops for the women. Let us help these peo- 
ple and clean up the place before night!” 

Farmer Ballweg was a leader in the com- 
munity. At his word there was a movement 
in the crowd. Young men leaped upon their 
horses and started home to get the farm wag- 
ons and to bring brooms and dusters for the 
women. The great black clouds were still 
hanging on the horizon when the work of 
removing the sand had begun. 

One of the neighbors came into the yard and 
notified Mr. Seyon that he had located seven of 
the cattle which had been stifled. He had also 
cut their throats. With three other men he 
would rush the dead cattle to the refrigerator 

184 


When Neighbors Become Friends 185 

in Sandpit where they would bring their real 
value in the meat market. 

In the house women were soon at work pack- 
ing dishes, furniture and clothing. It was 
decided to remove everything from the rooms. 
With old baskets, buckets and pieces of wood 
the men and boys were carrying the sand from 
the house. 

Soon a few wagons arrived with teams and 
scrapers. After a brief consultation it was 
decided to throw the sand at the lower corner 
of the yard where it slanted toward the former 
lake. This would simply level the yard and 
enlarge it. 

“Ha — ha!” cried farmer Ballweg who, with 
several of his friends, was shoveling sand from 
the chicken coop. “Here they are! Chick- 
ens for sale! Every farmer here must buy a 
chicken. They are dead, but you always kill 
chickens before you eat them; and now you 
will be saved the trouble of killing them. 
We’ll have an auction of chickens. Stop your 
w^ork there, ladies. Come right out and buy 
a supply of meat for to-morrow. It’s a fair 
sale! A fair exchange! You take this fat 
chicken home with you to-night, and to-mor- 
row or the next day — no, wait a minute,” he 
said, speaking for a moment to Mr. Seyon, 


186 When Neighbors Become Friends 

“not to-morrow, but after three days, you 
bring in a live chicken.” 

Great hilarity now followed as all gathered 
around the farmer and the auction progressed. 
Mr. Ballweg dilated upon the merits of every 
chicken which he exhibited before the crowd. 
“Just look at this rooster!” he exclaimed. 
“It’s as fat and tender as a turkey. Going! 
Going! — Sold! Now, sir,” said he to the pur- 
chaser, “you are to bring back the finest rooster 
on your farm and even that will be poor pay.” 

Soon the chickens were all disposed of and 
the buyers were back at their work. Fully 
a hundred people were engaged in helping 
around the house. All were surprised at the 
progress, for before dark the women were rest- 
ing in the house with all the rooms spotlessly 
clean, and were enjoying a lunch which some 
had thoughtfully provided. 

Walter and some other boys came running 
down from the top of the hill with the news 
that the grave of little Rollin was not touched. 
Many trudged over the sand and climbed the 
hill to verify the report. True it was! Only 
a few feet from the grave the wind had torn a 
great hole in the ground ; the little grave, how- 
ever, was not only undisturbed but not the 
slightest traces of sand could be seen upon it. 


When Neighbors Become Friends 187 

Gradually the happy neighbors went away, 
leaving behind them, however, a bountiful sup- 
ply of provisions. 

It all seemed a dream, a wondrous dream to 
Mr. and Mrs. Seyon as they sat at the table 
that night with the flickering light of a lantern 
before them. 

Early on the following morning Dr. Murt 
came. “I have some good news,” he said to 
the Belgians. 

“We have had enough bad news,” replied 
the man. 

“But we are thankful to God that our lives 
were spared,” said the wife, “and the neighbors 
were so very, very kind.” 

“God did you a favor in sending the sand- 
storm,” said the visitor. 

“Good comes with every evil, they say,” 
replied the man. 

“But this was not an evil ; it was a good, a 
real good. I have been walking over the farm 
since daylight. Well, what did the storm do? 
It moved tons and tons of sand. It filled up a 
lake of about seven acres and dug out another 
lake of three acres, deeper and better located.” 

“But there is no water in the new lake,” said 
the wife. 

“You would be surprised,” he explained. 


188 When Neighbors Become Friends 

“but there is fully a foot of water in the lake. 

“As I said,” resumed Dr. Murt, “you are 
about four acres ahead on the change.” 

“Yes,” objected the Belgian, “but fully fifty 
acres have been covered with sand.” 

“Probably not over thirty acres,” said Dr. 
Murt, “but remember that all the country is 
covered with sand. Sometimes the sand fif- 
teen feet beneath the surface has more vege- 
table matter in it than that which is reached by 
a plow or the roots of grass. This is true in 
the present instance. You’ll find that the new 
surface will make the best hav land on the 
farm, and after a few years will be good for 
corn and oats. It just depends on two things 
— a good rain and very little wind. If we only 
have a good shower and if the wind does not 
blow beyond the normal I predict that young 
bunch-grass and blue-stems will stick their 
noses out of the ground before two weeks have 
passed. And in less than a month the entire 
new soil will be green.” 

“I hadn’t thought of that,” replied the 
Belgian. 

“I have made a study of this region and have 
experimented on a small scale,” explained the 
doctor, “and I feel that I am absolutely right 
in my conclusions. Now,” he continued. 


When Neighbors Become Friends 189 

“we’ll make an experiment. We’ll walk over 
to the hill where the ground has not been dis- 
turbed and dig a small box full of soil. Then 
we’ll fill another box of the same size with the 
new sand. In each we’ll plant some redfieldia 
seed, put them in the same place, and water 
them daily. If the seed doesn’t grow better in 
the new sand I’ll give you a milk cow.” 

The conversation was interrupted by some 
neighbors who brought a supply of meat, 
bread, and vegetables for the Belgians. In 
fact, curiosity and compassion continued to at- 
tract the farmers for many days. Even little 
children who had regarded the house as 
haunted came with their parents, and clung to 
them affrighted as they went into the building. 

To the different visitors Dr. Murt explained 
his theory that the farm had been improved by 
the hurricane. They were inclined to doubt 
his optimistic views; but a close examination 
of the newly formed strata convinced them that 
there was a possibility of the land being good 
for grass. 

Dr. Murt’s predictions came literally true. 
The redfieldia grew twice as high as did the 
grass in the other box. Soon the layer of sand 
over the field and the hillside began to assume 
a greenish tint. 


190 When Neighbors Become Friends 

Gradually the storm and its effects were for- 
gotten by both the curious and the friendly. 

After a careful inspection of the farm by a 
number of Belgian farmers, who had gone 
security for the loan to Rudolph Seyon, it was 
agreed that the estate was worth at least fifteen 
thousand dollars, and the present occupant was 
justified in offering that sum to Mr. Dobbs. 

The latter was astonished when he received 
the communication, for in his despair and hasty 
departure he was convinced that all was lost. 
He gladly accepted the offer. With this 
arrangement he could pay off the mortgage to 
Mr. Seyon and still have three thousand five 
hundred dollars. The papers were drawn up 
and signed, and the Dobbs farm became the 
property of Rudolph Seyon. 


CHAPTER XX 

FAREWELL TO THE SAND-HILLS 

W alter’s departure from Sandpit had 
been delayed a few days by the inci- 
dents of the sand-storm ; but now he was ready 
to go, and was spending the last evening with 
the Murts. 

“You must listen to one of my pupil’s com- 
positions,” said Mrs. Murt to the doctor, as 
they sat on the porch with their young friend. 

“Well, we’ll hear about the storm,” replied 
the husband. 

“No, he has not finished it.” 

“I didn’t begin it,” put in Walter. “I 
thought that it would be an easy subject but I 
couldn’t get the description started.” 

“Then let us hear about the killing of the 
wolf,” suggested the physician. 

“He has written a long account of the inci- 
dent — a really graphic account; but it is not 
my choice. I want you to hear his composi- 
tion on: The Flowers of the Sand-Hills,” 
pleaded Mrs. Murt. 


191 


192 Farewell to the Sand-Hills 

“It is easy to see that he has had a woman 
teacher,” remarked the doctor. “But let us 
hear about the flowers. No one loves the flow- 
ers of Nebraska more than I. I used to think 
that flowers were for children, but I find more 
interest in them the older I get. Yes, let us 
have the composition on flowers.” 

“I don’t like to read it to you. Dr. Murt, for 
it was intended for those who had never seen 
the flowers of Nebraska.” 

“Knowing something about the subject I 
may enjoy it all the more.” 

“But I am sure that you will find mistakes 

• *1 >> 
in it. 

“I don’t think so, for you know as much 
about the flowers as I do.” 

“That is kind of you. Dr. Murt, but I am 
sure that I have much to learn.” 

“We shall both enjoy hearing it,” said Mrs. 
Murt. 

In the gathering twilight Walter read his 
composition : 

SOME OF THE FLOWERS OF THE SAND-HILLS 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous, 
God hath written in these stars above. 

But not less in the bright flowerets under us. 
Stands the revelation of His love. 

Longfellow. 


Farewell to the Sand-Hills 


193 


There has always been a depth of meaning in the 
tribute which the heart of man in all ages has paid 
the flowers. And what an opportunity w^e have here 
at the foot of the sand-hills to make the innumerable 
wild flowers our dearest friends. 

Among the earliest and best loved flowers is the 
marsh marigold, which blossoms out like a patch of 
sunshine from a dark sky. As soon as the snow 
has left the ground you begin your search. 

I have gone to the sw^amps near the Loup River 
in the evenings to gather a large bouquet and while 
carrying them home found it necessary to change 
them from hand to hand in order to warm my fin- 
gers. The larger and brighter colored flower is 
found about the first of May. The best variety 
grows in the very low and swampy portions of the 
valley, are about the size of a half dollar, and bright 
yellow in color. The stems are hollow and very 
smooth. 

Just at the time that the marigolds are plentiful 
and we are searching for the largest flower, another 
little visitor attracts our attention. It has barely 
raised its slender stem above the ground to the sun- 
light and we are delighted to find under the shady 
leaves a cluster of violet buds. We jealously watch 
our plant and in a few days carry home a modest 
bouquet of sweet scented violets. The violet is a 
tiny, deep blue, fine petaled blossom with a dash of 
yellow and red sunk into its chalice, and upheld by 
a single pale green stem from amidst a profusion 


194 


Farewell to the Sand-Hills 


of rather large leaves at its base. These little sym- 
bols of humility stay with us till midsummer. 

During the month of June the wild rose makes the 
sand-hills look like a vast flower bed. This delight- 
ful little plant grows best in a sheltered, sandy soil, 
and often along grain fields. The blossoms vary 
from white to crimson, but the most beautiful shade 
is a soft pink. These flowers are found in their 
richest color during the latter part of June, and 
stay with us until about September. 

The beauty, fragrance and sweetness of the flower 
are not vain attributes ; each is designed for a rare 
purpose. The colors allure and attract the pass- 
er-by, be he insect, bird, or man. The pot of nectar 
is a sufficient reward for the insect ; and the transfer 
of the pollen from one rose to another by the clumsy 
but welcome guest, is the end for which all this 
beauty, fragrance, and sweetness have been pro- 
duced. 

The buttercup grows on the hillside or on the 
prairies. It is a flower whose life, and even whose 
color signifies its cheerfulness. It is a strong plant, 
about one foot in height. The stems are clustered 
from the thickened roots. The blossom is on the 
stem and is about a quarter of an inch in diameter. 
It is also cup-shaped. The petals are spatulate- 
oblong and a bright yellow in color. 

The sand-cherry is probably the most important 
of the native fruits of the sand-hills of Nebraska. 
It is perennial, growing as a bush, usually from 


Farewell to the Sand-Hills 


195 


fifteen to eighteen inches high, although under favor- 
able conditions it may reach a height of about 
thirty-six inches. 

This plant blossoms very early in the spring. 
The blossoms are white and have a very delicious 
fragrance. The fruit which appears in a short time 
is green in color and about the size of an early 
orchard cherry. After some time the cherry changes 
to a reddish color and finally to a brownish black. 
This last change does not take place until harvest 
time when the fruit is ripe. 

The sand-cherry grows best on a side hill, where 
there has been a mulch from the winter snow, or in 
sandy creek bottoms. It does not seem to thrive as 
well now as it did in the time of the early settlers 
of Nebraska. Then fruit was not so plentiful and 
people were most grateful for the sand-cherries 
brought home for cooking. It is said that the chil- 
dren after a few hours’ outing would come home with 
bushels of cherries in a wagon. These were cooked 
and put away unsweetened, later to be used in mak- 
ing sauce, jellies and pies. 

The birds also took advantage of the plentifulness 
of these cherries and used them as their chief article 
of food. At the present time the birds destroy much 
of this delicious fruit. 

‘‘Have you fallen asleep, and have you no 
comments to make?” asked the teacher when 
Walter had finished the reading; for the doc- 


196 Farewell to the Sand-Hills 

tor, with his head resting in his right hand, was 
looking pensively at the floor. 

“Yes, I have a comment,” he began slowly. 
“I heard and enjoyed every word of the com- 
position — every word of it. But people who 
have never been in Nebraska will not under- 
stand about its flowers. Walter,” he contin- 
ued, turning to the boy, “I believe that this 
year has been most useful for you. You have 
gone over the books which other boys study in 
school, you have learned to hunt; but most of 
all, and this is the point I wish to bring out, you 
have learned to interpret nature. Perhaps in 
years to come you will better understand what 
I am saying.” Then the doctor suddenly rose 
to his feet, as he realized how seriously he^was 
speaking. “Come! come! come!” he cried. 
“I must not be preaching to you the last night 
which you have to spend with us.” 

“It is hard to realize that he is to leave us,” 
said the wife. 

“How quickly the year has gone,” added the 
boy. 

“And you were homesick only once,” were 
the words of Dr. Murt. 

“Yes, only once,” replied Walter. “I was 
too busy to think of home.” 












“Then he arose and over the mound 
of white and pink and red.” — Pa(ye 198 


he scattered the petals 



Farewell to the Sand-Hills 197 

"‘Yes, my wife and I did keep you pretty 
busy.’’ 

“And little Roily and the Seyons,” said 
Walter; “all of you were so kind.” 

“It was a great pleasure for us,” claimed 
Mrs. Murt. 

“For four years in Chicago I talked to you 
about hunting on the Loup River; and now — 
now — the sport is all over. But you are 
young and I am young. Some day you may 
return and spend at least a few weeks with 
us,” and unconsciously the doctor relaxed into 
his serious mood. 

Far into the night they talked, rehearsing 
over and over again the incidents of the past 
year — ^the hunting, the storm, the death of 
little Roily. 

The morning train bore Walter Blakestone 
to Omaha. On the following day he was wel- 
comed by his parents and sisters in Chicago. 




One day at the end of June a stranger 
walked into the yard, knocked at the kitchen 


198 


Farewell to the Sand-Hills 


door and asked Mrs. Seyon whether he could 
speak with Mr. Dobbs. 

“He is gone!” said she. 

“And his little boy?” 

“Dead,” said the Belgian woman with a 
sigh. 

“And you knew him?” 

“Yes, I was like a mother to him all last win- 
ter.” 

“May I sit down?” the stranger asked; “my 
name is Ignatius Bararana. They called me 

Ig" 

“Oh! I heard them speak of you so often, 
so very often; and little Rollin called you Ig.” 

Then Mrs. Seyon told him all that had hap- 
pened, and when she had finished she pointed 
through the trees to the top of the hill. “He is 
buried there,” she whispered. 

He asked for a cup of water but she forced 
him to stay and have some food. When he 
had eaten he thanked the woman, then said, “I 
will go to the grave and pray.” 

Along the hillside wild roses grew in riotous 
profusion. He gathered a great cluster of 
them. By the side of the little grave Ignatius 
Bararana prayed. Then he arose and over 
the mound he scattered the petals of white and 
pink and red. 


Farewell to the Sa7id-Hills 199 

Then he raised his eyes to heaven, blessed 
himself with the sign of the cross, and went 
down into the valley at the foot of the sand- 
hills. 


THE END 




PRINTED BY BENZIGER BROTHERS, NEW YORK 













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